We are led into blackberries,for our picking
From night, a word of night we would pick
Before morning, in  hillside thorny picking.

Of course there are briers and violet blood
On our childhood pockets, purple memory
A sweet anticipation,  taste tingled tongue.

Unlike the poet , we would not let fruit rot
To rue growth’s inevitable disappointment
Tracing tiny white flowers  causa proxima.

We would love simple white moon flowers
The transformation to passion- violet fruit
But avoid to think forward the rot in barn.

Growth is desperate journey to rottenness
A bone rot, a dust of the childhood’s blood.
We must stop somewhere before a rot sets.

(After reading Seamus Heaney’s poem Blackberry Picking)