Last Of The Season

So trifling –

Going out and berry-picking.

Then at once your eyes pick out

What mind does not.

Fruits few, and you’ve

A doubled effort,

Legs now filled with lactic acid

For the berries are so separate, so far apart

And so far spread that you’ve a stretch

To pick one cluster

And an equal mental strength

To muster.


Berries big but water-filled,

You fill your pail with ease and skill

Glad that you own much ground

And have such land to walk around.

You know that you have filed your last

Holes, hills and hindrances regardless.


Stumbling – but it’s spongy,

Falling – but it’s mossy,

You’ve succeeded,

Your success half-litered and not needed;

You’ve already liters lidded.


Temperature about to drop

Already showing signs of dipping,

Wind is up

And there is no conclusive feeling;

Berries that are season’s last!


You hope you’ll be alive and kicking

Next year when it’s time for picking,

Now that picking time seems past.


Last Of The Season 9.2.2016

Circling Round Nature II; Birth, Death & In Between II;

Arlene Corwin


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