Annual Futility
A few years back we planted
Sophia's blackberry bush,
an impulse purchase, granted,
spindly and easily crushed.
The first year, we got no berries,
and it looked more like a weed,
some sad, thin topiary,
already gone to seed.
But since then, every summer,
at the corner of the fence,
the flowers have grown in number,
the berries have grown more dense.
They come when the days are hottest,
and no one goes outside.
So they ripen until they are rotten,
lost before they've been tried.
No comments:
Post a Comment