Blackberries

Blackberries are a rough and tumble lot. Grown from red-clay, sun-bleached embankments on thicketed briars, the fruits reflect their environment’s character. Well-watered they grow fat and luscious, thin skins bursting at just the touch required to pick berry from stem. Grown wild, they are less than half the size but cling to their thorny patches with determined grit. Blackberries find their way into the mouths of animal foragers upon which mastication, digestion, and defecation releases the seeds from which the next blackberries will grow. It is an ugly resiliency that bears bittersweet reward.

My soul belongs to the wild blackberries. Death’s sharp scythe has hacked scars into my body, yet my soul continues to grow and bear fruit. I am the root, the vine, and the thorn. Each day alive is a surprising ripe berry, gritty and exhilarating.