Shiny luster of blackberries softens
in late summer. The tips of each clump
are first to lose the tight tummy of youth
and surrender to middle aged softness.
We're buddies. They can't
wait to fall into my fingers.
I gorge in an audacious
orgy that is replenished
with sun that seems endless.
But in dark years, late summer clouds
are a funeral procession that solemnly
marches across the sky.
Battered berries skip purple plumpness
and shrivel into a vestige that I can't eat.
They are cold and devoid of jubilance.
But in the best we have an intertwined union.
I lust for clumps just out of reach, stretch on my toes.
Ignore sharp biting thorns as if we are one.
Don't notice red etch-a-sketches being drawn
on my arms and legs. Feast in purple plentitude.
By Harvey Schwartz
Harvey is a runner up in our second poetry contest - thank you, Harvey, for your submission!