Gretchen Primack

You're blackberries—turn black
already. The thorns are in place,
your skin is pebbled, the flowers
you used to be declared you loud
enough to startle toads.

Wind skims the skin from the pond.
Spiders move their kite strings overhead
and the frogs are waving bullhorns.

Orange robin, tangled in the berries,
you're jumping the gun. They aren't
ready yet, though every cell around
tells them different. Jerky little miss,
my stomach is a hot shoe of pollen
and honey. Tell us something from
your jagged beak.