It Seems Not One is Untouched

Blazing scarlet-
Precious gems by the scores;
The suits may puzzle
That their value is no less.

Not round, not consistent:
Some more pink, some quite black.
The sun, it helps, but also harms-
Too much of a good thing…

A few of their comrades
Have taken too much;
Their deep, soulful heart seeps through.
I blow the death march
As I lower them down.

Lumpy, wounded, young, or
Well-acquainted with the sun;
It seems not one is untouched.

I wonder the only obvious thought:
"What is this that I walk upon-
This ground, this Earth-
That regal, noble treasures,
These high-born bits of sun,
Might find it worthy of their
Patronage.

All this I ponder
As I return to the sylvan, thorny
Branches of that bush bearing
The Raspberries.

A note (since it is a bit complex):
I was sitting outside in my family's small raspberry patch during this summer. Raspberries signify summer to me, and always have. What I'm trying to say is that, despite all their imperfections, each raspberry still tastes like a raspberry: a soft, but tangy, somehow red-tasting sweetness that complements the nostalgia I feel in the summer. The raspberries are a bit of a metaphor for people.