The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
—Sylvia Plath
Black. Huckle. Rasp. My favorite time of the season is coming to a close.
Fruit, free for the taking, well, almost.
They extract a kind of price. For the opportunity to turn
my fingers and tongue purple,
I must stop.
The ripest, fragile as a bee’s wings, fall
from the bush with the faintest nudge.
No rose could match this.
Sweet as only wild things
Can be.
Raspberry picking
Among dangerous hobbies
Is the tastiest