Dave Bringhurst

It is the end of blackberry season

Here on the west coast of prosperity

There's no kid with scratched arms and red mouth

In a bush at the end of the street

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The criss-crossed brambles still bear berries

Dry and tiny like raisins

Missed by the lovers of dark fruit

Denied the warmth of a pie crust

Left to propagate the message

That the best things in life are free

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Shriveled black bunches of next year's wild crop

Desired by no one

Hanging in the thorns

Like shotgun pellets frozen in time

Their future unknown but it's certain

That some carry new life

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Hidden on dark dusty pinewood pantry shelves

Imprisoned by crystal

Spirit of the roadside skeleton

Echoes of eager young voices

Await the dead of winter

To be spread on hot buttered toast

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