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I called them sweetheart berries because they were sweet and tart, like Sappho’s vision of Eros—

bitter at the heart. They were pink as salmon roe and didn’t mind the dark

of a looming cedar shadow, a deep wet tangle of wood, bracken and duff below.

Once, I saw them from the road and stopped the car and plunged in to pick a load

and hand them to my love who had never seen such things, so delicate of leaf

and watery as springs with a flavor to make us nod, piquant on our tongues,

elusive as that god who loosened Sappho’s limbs and left her feeling awed

enough to write her hymns.