now I notice them all the time,
Mulberries.
the ground is wet and dark stained from them
a circle on the sidewalk, inking to the pavement.maybe before we couldn’t help it
but now i can’t help but notice,
since the walk
where he reached up from no where
and pulled the white ones down.
not yet black.
sweet.
a tree he used to tend when he was a child
part of a garden divided into four, representing the 4 natures of childhood.

The tree followed him from persia, new america, to settle over his shoulder
on a lonely hill road in france.
he prepares a napkin to carry extras home to her.
she sleeps and waits
her time
his time
but still together

the trees’ name is charlie.
but that is between him
and charlie, not me says the sorcerer.

he carries them home to her in a paper towel,
a napkin, a pocket
a cupped hand

mulberries
the tree has followed him
here.
now it has sent one for me.
in chicago i step on the berries
by the bus stop, the black fence and the 4 boys playing basketball.
maybe they were there before,
but i never noticed.
most never notice
the bus and the busy walkers just go over them
slightly annoyed by the moist black marks .
for them black mess is black mess.

since he lifted up and gave me three
is has not been the same.
now I want to reach and pick them off the ground, the low branches and climb for the higher ones.
place them in a napkin in my pocket
carry them home to him
while he rests.

put it’s juice on the outside of an envelope and mail it to the further one.
a thank you that the tree has followed me.

sorcerer
charlie