When I was little I was not allowed
to play with the cub in the blackberries.
My protector said the big Mommy
might take a fierce swipe at me.
She has big sharp claws, you know.
She doesn’t know you’re friendly.
Memories are black bears living
in the shadowed forests of our minds,
often disappearing soon after they are seen,
sometimes bolting faster than belief,
other times lumbering into the shadows,
fading into dappled recesses of the woods.
Mostly they won’t harm a human soul,
unless they have life they’re protecting.
Some of them aren’t bears at all,
but shape-shifters playing tricks
for unknown dangerous reasons of their own.
A mauling from a werebeast’s no small thing.
Those scars can open up again
after years of merely itching.
Flesh and nerves ripped decades past
bleed and flame worse than when fresh torn.
How to tell the difference between
a peaceful bear and vengeful spirit?
Playing dead’s no use until too late.
No one can outrun what’s truly due.
After healing is done, properly
this time, no long drawn festering,
the metal taste of pain gives way
to the wine-purple flavor of blackberries.
~ Wry Welwood
late twentieth century
re-edited April 2021
Previously published in Sky Collection, on Medium.