On a crisp autumn day,
I pick berries from a bowl--
round pockets of bright red,
lightly dotted with cool beads of water
holding the world in their view.
Each one meets me,
a water balloon bursting forth
with a sweet plop
and a sharp tang.
A cool taste of the fall breeze
bringing me back to
the frivolity of summer.
As the daylight hours fade,
so do my berries,
bringing me to the bottom of the bowl
where the lesser berries lie.
I must admit, I've been avoiding them,
with their shriveled pockets of
a dark and faded red,
some torn, some browned.
A squishy imitation of the previous perfection
I had become acquainted with.
But in their beaded water droplets,
I see in them my reflection.
As if they were a pair of eyes
committing my image to memory.
I wonder what they think of me,
of my dark and faded demeanor,
my tears and my browning.
Maybe all I am now is
a squishy imitation of my previous self.
