Bittersweet: gold-red indelible berry, its branches
swirling in a tangle. Every autumn, we’d drive
southeast to where the bushes line the roads
in Rhode Island. Once in November, I watched
my friend’s dark sweater dip and disappear, then
rise above the tall bleached winter grass, the teasel.
Glamorous, that distant pine flashing in a field
steeped in momentary golden. And strange
are the shades that linger here from youth,
a terrain compounding confession and silence.