-This poem reflects on finding the last blackberry of the season, where a single forgotten fruit becomes a quiet symbol of gratitude, sufficiency, and the gentle beauty of endings.
Along the old fence, hidden deep,
one berry still holds to the cane,
dark as evening after rain,
waiting where the leaves grow still.
The others found their hands and bowls,
their sweetness gathered weeks before,
but this one lingered in the shade,
a quiet gift the season kept.
It yields with hardly any pull,
its purple staining thumb and palm,
a final taste of sun and field,
held longer than the heart expected.
So much of late summer lives here,
not in abundance, but in enough,
one berry left upon the vine,
reminding us that endings, too,
can ripen into grace.