Last summer, I went to the little wood next to my house.

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Last summer, I went to the little wood next to my house.
I waited until the beginning of the evening
when the sun gently began to set.
I took a ball and went to pick the blackberries.
I enjoyed it despite the thorns’ bruises I knew I would get.
The bees where buzzing around.
I started picking up the blackberries.
There were so many. Some really dark and ripe
and others going from a light pink to a vibrant red.
I knew I would come back in a couple of days.
It was really quite. There were just the mountains,
on which the sun was setting, surrounding me.
The same old ones. They have always been by my side.
Picking the blackberries I was thinking
of the jam and pies I would bake
still facing the mountains from the kitchen’s window.

-E.R.

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