Late Summer Leavings

by LIZ DOMENECH

I walk a field edged by chokecherries
who, weeks ago, hosted kingbird quarrels,
robin nests, finch-perch, clematis-climb.

Now it is August, and I am ripe with leavings—
the tree swallows whose flight filled this field
have flown on,

the wood pewee no longer trills from the willows
so that even rushing water feels abandoned,
or maybe that’s just me, missing my grandfather.

I take the trail in loops, circle around
what I can’t have—more time.
What I want—the staying.

Still, the chokecherries’ branches
drip and dangle and drape with cherries
like bunches of grapes the color of blackberries,

thicket thick holding the last of it all—
last wren, last vine-wisp, last leaves,
last hunger, last fill, last fruit,

this bitter berry, neither too little nor too late.