With all this rain,
the berries have exploded,
fireworks of red and pink,
bursting through
spiky green leaves.
I pick them carefully,
the ripest ones fall easily
into my hand,
letting me know
they are ready.  

I make my way through the patch,
parting branches
like cascading waves swirling around me,
sharp with broken shells and sand.
I do not mind this.
But I wish I liked raspberries more.
They confuse me with their bumps and seeds.
I always think they should be sweeter,
the taste of jam sugared and cooked down.  

False promises.