Searching for a poem before bed

I should be in bed already. I’m exhausted. I’ll spare you the details for now. But you know what I did—instead of sliding under my duvet? I spent 10 minutes rifling through stacks of books in search of a poem.

It’s an Atwood poem about blackberries and I thought that perhaps it mentioned brambles (it doesn’t, that was my hazy memory). Have you ever felt an insistent itch to re-read an old poem and chase the feeling it left you with on some forgotten day? I had that tonight.

I did find the poem, and I did satisfy the itch. I also recognized that it has been quite some time since I last felt that I urgently needed to re-read a poem. I’m glad this happened.

Here’s the poem, which you might see upon waking. If that’s the case, I recommend trying it right before bed.

Goodnight.

Blackberries

© Margaret Atwood

In the early morning an old woman
is picking blackberries in the shade.
It will be too hot later
but right now there’s dew.

Some berries fall: those are for squirrels.
Some are unripe, reserved for bears.
Some go into the metal bowl.
Those are for you, so you may taste them
just for a moment.
That’s good times: one little sweetness
after another, then quickly gone.

Once, this old woman
I’m conjuring up for you
would have been my grandmother.
Today it’s me.
Years from now it might be you,
if you’re quite lucky.

The hands reaching in
among the leaves and spines
were once my mother’s.
I’ve passed them on.
Decades ahead, you’ll study your own
temporary hands, and you’ll remember.
Don’t cry, this is what happens.

Look! The steel bowl
is almost full. Enough for all of us.
The blackberries gleam like glass,
like the glass ornaments
we hang on trees in December
to remind ourselves to be grateful for snow.

Some berries occur in sun,
but they are smaller.
It’s as I always told you:
the best ones grow in shadow.