An offering

Somewhere in the middle is a trap of the succulent blackberry bushes that smell of freshly pressed wine. The thorn spread wall is a harsh barrier, and the leaves shadowing above keep the light from piercing into the darkness. The blackened berries offer a lip-smaking season abundant with friendly children and children-now-grown-up unable to resist the visible temptation of the bite size treasures while strolling by. Gone are the days of amity and youthfulness, when the heavy clouds settle over the valley like a blanket of drought and abandonment. No longer the buckets clank together near the edge of the woodland flora where hands pluck for the sweet fruit. Instead they complain that the ugly gray underbrush is barren and worthless. Now its offering is forgotten until the next season when again it will offer more than enough.