Gooseberry

by Bri Fischella

​

When the cottonwoods  

and Gooseberrys

were born

the roses were there.

The stream cold

and babbling

untouched by

a blazing sun.

Cool

The Minor’s Lettuce

blooms at its

base.

The water singing

to the nymphs.

In the thicket of roses

I was there

with the

Gooseberries

and the nymphs

I made sacrifices

of collected

Daisies on

fallen trees

and left.