I went first to the east side of the blackberry patch to pick.
Fermented, formless, bug-infested, bitter, small berries, all.
I wonder: the west side berries get late afternoon sun,
Soaking in the warmth until night.
Is that the difference? The east side loses daylight early?
Not to find an allegory under every vine,
But I hope that I face the Son until night,
That I may offer sweet fruit to all who come.
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