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Lexington Poetry Month

Picking Raspberries


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.

3 responses to “Picking Raspberries”

  1. Pat Owen says:

    I feel the same way

  2. Linda Bryant says:

    I like it that you give us an unexpected ending. Good job.

  3. Geri says:

    thank you!

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