Eventually you decide the scratches are worth it
and you wade through the vines into the thicket
where the berries still hang red and ripe and profuse.
You leave a suggestion of a path behind you.
Tomorrow it will be invisible, like so many paths
you’ve made. The bushes, like convictions, will reclaim
their wildness. But for now, there is this sweetness
to follow, this hunger, this pleasure in finding a way,
this drive to harvest all that the day has to offer.