poems about raspberries

Picking wild raspberries in the early August woods
 
It takes a few mornings to refine the art
discerning the sweetness of the colours on display
the prettiest not yet ready
the dullest too far gone
daily, finely tuning in
to that dusty purple raspberry song
 
and finer still the artful tug
of finger tips and thumb
 
the ones that slide off too easily
go straight to the waiting dog
 
the ones that concede to a stem-bending pull
go into my breakfast tub
 
but the ones that yield
with a delectable tease
go straight into my gob