The raspberries tasted of youth.
"How truly simple this is,"
I thought as I waited for the coffee to brew.
It is raining today, a cold rain, a December rain.
It is only a few weeks from the solstice.
The days move so swiftly,
chasing something with such haste.
As I stood watching the rain and eating the raspberries that tasted of childhood and innocence,
I tried to understand this movement of time, this day that runs ferociously to some unseen end.
It was never like this when I was a kid;
time moved with gentleness, a kindness I needed.
I would stand in the fields amongst the raspberries,
free from care,
My hands would be covered in fresh juice and tiny pinhole thorn marks that bled.
Breaking myself from reverie and pouring my coffee,
I understood that the raspberry patches were my kingdom.
I felt safe there,
nestled among brambles and thorns,
their scratches gentler than his anger.