Raspberry Picking

A thick, glass bowl held firmly in my hand

I stoop and lift the drooping, bent, brown cane,

And summer sun beats down upon my back

And goose grass clutches, scratches, where I stand.

And heat evaporates the sharp, strange scent

Residing in the soft and hairy leaves

Of flowering dead nettle, as I crane

To reach the red ones near the fence. My sleeves

All floaty chiffon catch and snag; a strand

Of climbing rose attacks my arm;

And yet I persevere, possessed by greed,

In competition with imagined mice.

I cannot leave a single soft, red fruit;

I seem impelled to pick and spread the seed

By some force stronger than my will.

I drop the odd one into long, dry grass,

But cannot leave it be and needs must root,

Determined it shall not be there to feed

Some other hungry creature who might pass.