Within the surge of leaf and bud,
The berries hang above the mud.
Summer rains have quickened life,
And young mosquitoes drill for blood.
They soar for war – each tinny fife
Shrills out its eulogy of strife.
Despite the bugs and thicket thorns,
I pick my berries, ripe and rife.
They gore me with their drinking horns.
I slap until their blood adorns
Me. Theirs? Or is it blood they stole?
Murdered brigands. No one mourns.
Having killed and filled my bowl,
I shamble off, a homeward troll.
And when my footfalls cease to thud,
The birds shall glean the ravaged whole.
If you have any comments on this poem, Seth Braver would
be pleased to hear from you.