Words grow wild on thorny vines.
Some are unready, still bitter,
mature ones lush and sweet,
but overripe, they fall apart.
I reach as high and far as I can,
teetering, fearing a fall. My palm
overflows; a greedy grasp
leaves pulp and unreadable stains.
People don’t ordinarily use a stepladder to pick blackberries, but our most abundant bush has climbed up a tree. I couldn’t resist the challenge.