The Blackberries Some hung forlornly Off withering branches The others , meanwhile Hung heavy after September deluges Some Ripe, and ready For the picking Others fallen into the long grass And still more Decayed, yet still attached To their mother The rest Not quite yet ready I gathered those that fell easily into my eager fingers My right hand Now blooded, and reddened By the flowing ripeness I shall feast tonight On their succulence As my tastebuds Moisten Like early morning dew In anticipation Awaiting My Blackberry tongue