Blueberries on a Maine Mountaintop​

​

ripe berries 

in a straw hat 

gathered with a reverence

of the discovery of first ripening

coming to fresh air

from a humid trail

plucking sweet, tight morsels

every couple steps 

 

at some moment my grip – slips

from my makeshift basket

spilling the bounty 

down the smooth granite

of the Maine mountainside –

rolling out of my reach

bruised, scattered berries

 

my poise tripped

your hands impatient

collecting what you can – for me

a portion of fruit

lost in the moss and grit

between granite slabs 

you pluck a few

from plants close by

to fill what is missing

 

and I know that two people 

can choose anything

even the clumsiness

even the fuss of imperfection

   

and I am not content with the conclusion

- you could not help me -

satisfied that the results

justified the means

​

I left with a hat of less

carefully collected

deep, blue berries

that I ate slowly

lonely for you

to love them with me

 

because I saw

the raw man

jaw softening

the deep red rotting logs

still, black water 

fire burning

​

I was the tender woman in awe

of the complexity,

the glistening

I saw in your eyes 

when they were not

looking at me

 

I could have kept walking

through the short, glossy shrubs

unconcerned with the blueberries 

but how each moment

makes up everything -

and what is not cherished immediately

perishes – eventually

​