Blackberry Thistle

A heartfelt embrace and warm tunes of past; the berry's are sublimely just ripe.

Rushing of wind and memories in mind; I pluck this summer's bounty away.

A familiar old pain I thought I outgrew; the shock has gripped me in rapid succession

The blackberries thorns and the thistle do sting, still even to this age in the sun.

The drawing of ease, and the promise of life; to be cut on the vine, silent, unwarned.

My urge is to leave, head trapped in it's static; it all feels so sudden, yet true growth developed without me.

Yes, I do know this pain, and I am older for sure; in this brush that so entangles, I can see through the scores.

Whether when young or grown new, this seasonal harvest, so filled with it's charms, was like this despite the occasion.

I look to my arm, and there lay blood and thorn; the realities of the static are fleeting.

I sigh now bereft, yet assured in my mind, however stout, conscious but forlorn.

I pluck these thorns out, and leave them behind; they are gone now, remembered but not to tear anymore.

My bloodied arm scarred, wrist resting upon me; still inside of my palm, blackberries heart close to my chest...

They still remain sweet and true ripe, as always in memory, as truer still they were in my life.