blackberries, Virginia, & Anne

It's Michaelmas. Today the devil spits on the blackberries, and I could cut the hedge. I'm reading Virginia, I'm reading Anne, I'm listening to Beth, I'm listening to Polly. The bookmark I found for Anne is a postcard printed with mosses.

The dogs are asleep in the sun, sprawled in shapes you would not draw a sleeping dog.

When your great-great-grandniece is reading Virginia, when she's reading Anne, who else is she reading? Does she know not to eat blackberries after Michaelmas?

I didn't freeze or stew any blackberries this year. Ate them all straight out of the paper bag each day, purple fingertips casting a vote for summer.

Virginia is a library book, I can't fall asleep holding her or the dogs will chew her. I can fall asleep with Anne, she's third-hand or maybe fourth-hand and wouldn't mind little dog teeth. I can't fall asleep with my crochet or the dogs will happily and quietly uncrochet it back into green and brown unshapes.

When I say I can't, I mean I can but I am aware of the consequence.

I'm reading Virginia, I'm reading Anne.