Back in camp from Crater Mountain,
I plunge into a dark, clear pool
and climb out onto the shore.
While my body dries in September sun,
I take my pick of the huckleberries at my side—
huckleberries blue and round,
waiting under their fall red leaves.
And then I eat them, one by one,
so delicious, so full of pleasure,
naked as I am on the bank, tasting
again the golden age, when clusters
of grapes crushed themselves
against our ripe and innocent lips.
Away from you, dear, this is as close
as I can come to your sweet love.
And, given these berries—
as surely as Adam was given
the fruit his wife so cherished—
pretty darn close, actually.