a death trinket

dear blackberry,
dear metaphor for hard truths,
each year you spread your soft green
like a blanket to the sun
each spring you feel fresh
against the shaded night
as though this season will be yours
and you will fruit a gleam
into the running children of the city
who will sit beside and reach
their hands deep into you--
each spring feels new
until this apple tree above you
blossoms, outcompetes, and leafs.
and each summer
you are a lesson

until a storm
lowers the pitch of your branches
your white and darker leaves litter the stream
beneath you and you are defeated
unmasted and drifting toward nothing
changed the same
hung like spruce
the smell of room temperature


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