Erika Sweet

Ripeness is all
I think,
picking blackberries in the cool morning,
softly squeezing each fruit
between thumb and forefinger
before plucking the ready ones
from the vine,
leaving the hard and nubby,
deeply purple though they may be,
for tomorrow.

When truly ripe
the juice oozes readily
onto my fingers,
the flesh soft and squishy.
Their time is short, only for today
perfectly plump and full
of sweet nectar.
If left overnight
they fuzz over,
disintegrate to mush,
juice pooling in the bottom
of the bowl.

But those short on time
are the sweetest,
wine-rich, their dark flavor
dancing on the tongue
in a fervent burst,
delicious in the moments
before decay.