The late sun casts a gentle light, Warm, weary, soft, and fading bright. Along the forest, thorns entwine, With crowns of black pearls, dark and fine. I cannot quite resist their call; I slip the tempting fruit inside, Past waiting lips, where flavors hide, To taste the richness of it all. My tongue crushes the yielding skin, To touch the hard seed deep within. The dark juice floods my mouth, and then My childhood rises back again. That heavy sweetness, dark and deep, Like fading rays that slowly sleep; A velvet richness, full and round, Where bright acidity is bound. It sparkles, sharpens, leaves a trace, A gentle tingle in its place. Then comes the scent of forest ground, Of moss and dark resins all ’round. Of fine old wood, of earth and rain, A wild, mysterious refrain. And in the finish, bittersweet, Like heavy wine, dark, deep, complete. It lingers softly on the tongue, A taste from summers long since young— A messenger that seems to say: The warm, delicious time gives way. The sun grows dim, the shadows grow, And still the black fruits seem to glow. They hold the last warm light of day, Before it, too, must fade away.
