They looked like they would

drip down our chins

while we savored their sweetness.

Ripe and full.

So we plucked them,

one-by-one,

until a purple blush streaked our fingers.

“We’re lucky,” I said,

“to find such a hoard;

our own treasure-trove.”

But things took an unexpected turn.

All that fruit was poisoned.

“They sprayed it, long ago,” you told me.

“I forgot.”

“How are we to tell treasure from toxin?”

I wondered if we should consult a medic.

“These times are risky,”

you sighed.

“No one knows a

berry from a time bomb.”

Still, we hope to find real wealth among the hedgerow.

Independent content creator, ghostwriter, author https://tinyurl.com/y2cgqhgv mental health advocate, and poet. bridgetwebbber@outlook.com

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