Last year, we gave in and decided to let a few canes grow on a support. We had a lot of berries. This year, there have been ripe berries every day all month. Every time we're in the yard, we collect a few.
After his nap this afternoon, I asked Dash if he wanted anything to eat before we left for the park. "Bewwies! Bewwies!" was the reply.
So I went out and picked some.
The canes of the blackberry bush prick and scrape as I harvest the ripe fruits, leaving aside the less-ripe berries for tomorrow. Some berries burst as I pluck them; I think of Plath, juices squandered on my fingers.
I go back up, berry-bearing.
There is a feast. Rapid and ecstatic. In less than two minutes, the berries are gone.
Nick thinks of Plath, too.
They ask for more. Once more I venture out, scratching my fingers on the canes, listening to squeals from inside.
The seconds are met with less enthusiasm, but not without joy. We still have berries left over.