Walking my daughter home from school,
the autumnal sun clear and bright
all around us -- though the wind is sharp,
for a vacant place to settle in.
We stop to pick the few remaining
raspberries along the way. They are cool
to the touch, trembling slightly,
tiny pistils of hair standing upright
on their flesh, offering back to us the rain,
sun, and soil of the season's passing.
She picks one, and places it in my hand,
while I reach for two more at the top,
placing them into her palms one at a time.
Sweetness offered, and sweetness
returned, I think to myself. So simple.
"This is the best raspberry that I've ever
tasted in my life," she exclaims.
She has said as much more than twice
over the summer. You would be forgiven
for thinking it mere exaggeration,
a childish excitement, but I'm quite certain
that it has been true each time,
as it is here and now. For both of us.
