Surrounded by prickers,
thorns
an intricate dance to get
there
tugging on my coat, my jeans
but not a stumbling block,
not really
a man on a mission, a
purpose,
lowering myself to the dark
small fruit
gathering in, berry by sweet
tart wet berry
scratches growing, a
burgundy stain
on eager fingertips,
reaching
A family of five, with pails
and bowls,
short on patience, gatherers
as of old
of a simpler, primal age,
these fruits,
finding food in the wild,
untamed,
uncultivated, natural state,
in nature
crouched in the blackberry
bramble
collecting tiny gems, tasty
pearls
ready to melt on the tongue
swatting at mosquitoes that
stalked us
watching for the safety, the
whereabouts
of younger, fitful pickers,
eager for fruit,
not the quest, the search,
under leaves,
under branches, the clusters
hidden
shrouded from the view, the sight
of less tenacious
eager for this fruit, this
nectar, ambrosia,
the foods of the gods, the
ancients before us
Gather them in, them all in,
for the pie
the reward we seek, at the
end of the work
this full true fruits of our
labors.
------
edited August 25, 2014
Crouched in the blackberry bramble – v2
August 31, 2006 9:22am
Crouched in the blackberry bramble
All
of my poems are copyrighted by Raymond A. Foss, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004,
2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014. All rights
reserved. Contact me at Ray Foss for usage.
See all 31,980+ of my poems at www.raymondafoss.blogspot.com
Poetry Where You Live.
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