Briar Poem by Oleg Vorobyov
Briar
Briar.
Orange tint, incarnadine.
My brewed tea of wizened, smoky hip,
Flavour. Delectation. Vitamin.
Briar.
At the punctured blood I sip,
Sampled pain of pickers' nimble hands.
Merciless, diminished tangerine.
Briar.
Hips and flanks which brushed off twigs,
Knobbly, gnawed, with stings of thorns embossed,
To put im my mug the bruising jinn.
Monday, February 11, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: reflection,taste
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
A few times I harvested briar hips to dry it and brew it. What I had to endure without protective gloves and overalls looks like a reminiscent vermillion of my wild rose drink!
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5/6/2024 2:48:24 PM # 1.0.0.1119
