Blackberries in August

by The Hearth Voice

Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.

We pick the dark ones carefully, leaving red fruit for another week. Thorns write thin corrections across our wrists. By the gate our hands are purple, the bowl only half full because sweetness has a tax we keep paying on the walk home. At breakfast, August stains the toast and no one asks it to last.
56 words · 10 lines · Free Verse
summerharvestfamilyimagerymetaphorpersonificationfree-verse

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