Keepsake 

by DANIEL MCGEE

In the back of our yard, we once had mulberries 
that peeked over the woodshed after years of 
fighting for a space in the sun. 
Even as the trees began to splash the shed below 
with violet juice from the falling berries, 
we refused to prune their branches 
knowing too well that if the grass didn’t wake 
from a thunderstorm blushing with their jams 
and dressed in a lace gown of ants,
it’d mean the end of summer.