Arts + Scene » Poetry

The Last Blackberries



My trellises are mostly bare,
with a withered stem, leaf, or beanpod here and there.
On tumbled down tomato vines a few remaining fruits are almost red.
Will they ripen?

Fence line blackberries wobble in the wind,
and glisten in the weak light of the late October sun.
We eat them as we pick them:
they are the sweetest because they are the last.

There comes a time in every garden
when there is no more sugar,
and its flavor fades away like the sound of geese flying south,
high over stubble fields.

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