by Josh Medsker
Hands purple with blackberries,
staining the rubber handles
on my primer blue Redline. We go
tearing down the hill, plumes fanning out
behind us in distant gravel.
we find the new jumping place
behind Gladys Wood,
and spend the afternoon flying
and failing and flying higher
than we could have hoped,
groaning at dusk,
on the trudge back up home.
I feel the purple on my hands again
in my backyard garden
crushing the years between my worn knuckles
sending sweet fruit and memory to the wind.
Josh Medsker is a New Jersey poet, originally from Alaska. His work has appeared in many publications in the U.S. and abroad. For a full biography of Mr. Medsker, please visit his website http://www.joshmedsker.com