Bramble.

 

And when the slanting sun assaults the eyes,

to search by Braille the harvest of this bush,

chance with fruit bloodied hands, its spikes,

regret my weakness with the pruning hook.

 

For when this season comes its yearly round

and taste buds fruitly turn to thoughts of pies,

this briar mass, invasive though I’ve found,

gets yet another stay, though patience it still tries.