Seasonal Transfusions

The moon did not enter my life in Autumn.
It was always there.
We picked blackberries
when the days were long and dry
and we too were as ripe as the black blood
which bled like real
from the small collected cells of juice.
Scrambling with skins scarred by summers hands,
bleeding just a little
the grasses and thorns
testing our sincerity,
our full blooded-ness,
taking a little back from what we took and ate
with our expectant pink mouths;
bleeding us
enriching the soil
for the next summer.