Granny’s overgrown raspberry bush lie
Next to the faded green garage.
The sprawling canes seemed
A writhing mass of snakes,
Poised to bite any who ventured near.
I would be sent into its midst,
Deliberately picking my way through the tangled branches
In search of its gleaming black gems.
“Sometimes,” Granny would tell me,
“To find the sweetest fruit,
You have to be willing to brave the thorns.”