Maturation Timing

Late, late in this year
That was freakishly
Cold and rainy here

Until suddenly,
Alarmingly dry
And hot, the berries

You’d fed your daughter
In her stroller on
Summer morning walks—

Plump little cushions
Of juice, redder than
Raspberries, soft

And feral as weeds,
Filling the bushes
Along any path—

Are out, and as soon
As they are, they wilt
In the brutal sun,

And your daughter flew
Away weeks ago,
Still wondering why

No thimbleberries
Had come out this year
Or did she miss them?