The rain gullies the garden paths
And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.
A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.
Even so, I can see that it has red berries,
A scarlet fruit,
Filmed over with moisture.
It seems as though the rain,
Dripping from it,
Should be tinged with colour.
I desire the berries,
But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.
Probably, too, they are bitter.

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1 Comment

  1. Kathy says:

    I think this poem fits all our lives at one time or another. Don’t we all at some point desire something or someone we know isn’t good for us and isn’t as good as we think it would be?

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