There they are Hiding along the Fence line A couple yards Down from the Wooded copse and The honeysuckle vines At first I Only see the Red of the Unripe berries beneath The new leaves Of poison ivy Sitting on a Raft of dead Tree limbs and The detritus from Last years spring And then I See them purple Nearly black little Jewels obscured by The underbrush My finger tips Turn a deep Magenta as I Pluck the small Packages of deliciousness From the vines Small pricks bleading On the back Of my hand Joyful is my Heart as the Coffee tin fills And the berries I deem lesser Bursts in all Of their sweet Glory in my Mouth as I Remember my Youth and cool Spring mornings and Picking dewberries in The forgotten fields Of my city
Posted on: Sat, 03 May 2014 12:47:14 +0000
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