One of the elderberries of the tribe,
Domitable, but tart. What I expected—
No, never mind. Not more or less and less,
Less saucy than a pilgrim berry. Drop
The bogs. They are not coming back. The old
Berries are what we call a souvenir,
The madeleine of fruit trees, for the loss,
The least instructive, dispersal of the juice,
The streetwise remnant abandoning the street,
Forswearing home and all that garden truck,
The radish and the relish on the vine,
The creepers and the hoe, the rake and rose.
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