The Tree of Scarlet Berries

 The rain gullies the garden paths
And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.

A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.

Even so, I can see that it has red berries,
A scarlet fruit,
Filmed over with moisture.

It seems as though the rain,
Dripping from it,
Should be tinged with colour.

I desire the berries,
But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.

Probably, too, they are bitter.

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