Blackberries, growing in Oak Glen, CA
Apples picked by my own hands
Put into the press and ground down
The raw elixir pours from a wooden spout
An invigorating medley of heirloom pulps
Fresh from the orchard, tasting of trees
The blackberry bushes along the path
Have concealed their fruits from my grasp
The bright purple globes covered in shadow
Though I press against the thorns
For I know you are hidden there
Yet here you are know, tinged with frost
The night cloaked across your shoulders
I nestle against the woven expanse
And speak of Winesaps and fallen leaves
That earlier crunched beneath my feet
I place drops of cider upon your tongue
The sweetness of the earth drawn up
And swallowed with ebullient kisses
And this you return to me upon your lips
That I may taste the meadow mixed with midnight
LiNdA
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