Like the World in its Way - 06/27/10

There’s this raspberry bush in my backyard
like the world
in the way that its branches;
all covered in deadly thorns,
stained with blood
and berry juice;
reach out into the evening light
with a will so strong
that those branches begin
to defy gravity,
growing straight up,
wrapping those thorns
around anything in its way,
desperate for the sky,
for the stars,
for whatever they think
lays beyond,
because their roots
have dug into everything,
invasively,
and ruined
their own chance of surviving
with the other plants,
and still they reach on,
not seeing that it’s killing them,
every last one.

There’s this raspberry bush in my backyard
 like the world
in the way that the black raspberries,
the ones hardened
and toughened
and sweetened
by the sun to be the color
of the sky at midnight,
all purple and black,
stick on the ends of the branches,
basking in the evening sun light,
taking it all in.
They are
harsh,
and hard,
business like in their way,
getting what they need,
whatever they need.
They shroud the other berries,
the red raspberries,
with the mushy,
heart-like bodies,
that crush and smash
as you try to pluck them.
Those red raspberries,
who cower under the thick,
raspberry bush leaves,
so much sweeter tasting
than the purple one,
but so much
trickier
to get to,
so much more
challenging
to reach
a slender hand
through the delicate thorns,
to be stabbed and pricked,
and to stain those thorns
with the sticky
red liquid
under the thin skin
of the slender hands.