Picking

So wrapped I am in their harvest poem,
The daylight is surreal,
Casting bleached blinding light
Through my line of sight,
And they gather warmth
As I, in my warmth, gather them.

Even the cold blooded insects
Take cover under bottle green leaves
In triple digit degrees:
The thorns brutal,
The sunlight glaring,
My shirt as black as berries
And soaked through.

Ruthless, their switch and swing
Sting the naked arms
That reach to pluck them.
These are not the brand
Bred like sponges in supermarkets.
These are not the kind
Sprayed in toxicity, grown
Behemoth and pretentious.

These are the breed
That beetles tend to rest on
In the season of reunions
Under an ashen sun.