Memoirs of a blueberry picker

They called the place the lookout sea,
Fountains of waves
A salt mist in blue sky aloft,
Clouds passing through Saturday mornings
Honey air, we walked a sandy path
With tin pails in hand;
Well water kept us cool as we picked
Bushel after bushel of plump blueberries.

Blue lips and fingers, a spider’s web,
A bee’s wing,
Dragonflies nipping and tucking, arising,
Noon sun casting our shadows;
Kindled my love for a season.
Gulls dragging their beaks in a tidal pool with water that
Had a brackish taste, the tang of a river sea;
Sandpipers scurrying through fen and thickets.

And so, together, with my sisters and brothers,
We gathered till the dusk came rising;
Pies and jams quenching our taste for a fruit.
We walked, and I still walk there,
Though the blueberry plants are barren save for
Fond memories; I oft hear joyful voices,
Hear tin pails clanging
Culling a harvest; our childhoods nourished.

Copyright © 02/23/18 lance sheridan®

Memoirs of a blueberry picker

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