The Last Raspberry

The fog crept over the headland this morning, a cool soft silk blanket covering my body and soul on this mid August morning. It occured to me that it was happening again. A vague ache that happens this time a year.
When the garden has nealy reached its harvest time, and flowers I admired just a few short days ago let go of this season, dropping their brown petals to the soil. And, the fog reminds me of approaching winters storms, wind and rain a violent relative to this calm, still, fragrant morning. It is a restive melancholy that leads me to the canes. Succulent red raspberries that fed me many mornings with my coffee. A tradition of transition as I cut the just fruited canes so the new ones will grow strong and bear next years delights. So I sat my coffee and camera and leather bound journal aside and grasped my pruning shears and began to cut away. On my knees carefully selecting the old from the new, aware of the pungant scent of summers passing, I caught a climpse of red beneith a curled leaf above my head. One lone raspberry hung seductively in the dim light. I plucked it and sucked its sweetness in my mouth, a lingering ecstacy of sensations that only ripe soft raspberries can offer to ones taste buds, and soul. Winter will have to wait another day, it is still summer.

Journal Comments

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