I had not thought the rose might bleed,
bring its own memory forward,
the irregular rhythm of grief
a message nearly missed
until the day you understand
what a single thorn can do.
But let’s sing about picking raspberries
while joyful human and avian chatter
floats across dry fields sprinkled
with fallen starlight of bindweed,
and how the wisp of thorn
on a raspberry stem can prick
deep as that of a rose.
About this Poem
Meg Freer grew up in Montana and now teaches piano in Kingston, where she enjoys taking photos outdoors and wishes she had more time for writing poetry. Her prose, photos, and poems have won awards in North America and overseas and have been published or are forthcoming in anthologies and journals such as Ruminate, Juniper Poetry, Vallum Contemporary Poetry, Arc Poetry, Eastern Iowa Review, and Queen’s Quarterly.
"A rose I had dried bled through like a smudge of blood onto the papers between which I had placed it, a bittersweet remembrance. Picking raspberries once on a gorgeous summer day was divine, and their tiny thorns scratched my skin and brought back memories of rose thorns."
Jason Heroux is interested in seeing what your "joy journal" looks like. What sort of images and moments and memories would be in there? Please send an example of a page from your joy journal to email@example.com with the words "Joy Journal" in the subject line. It can be a poem, a list, a paragraph ... anything you like. A few submissions may be selected to appear as upcoming posts on the Poetry Blackboard.