she weaves through the bramble of summer and
tangled vines of sweet smellling honeysuckle
fifty years of color isolation leaps into action...she
can spot the sugar-dusted dark purple of a blueberry
from the distance of a stones throw across the pond...
the sun-warmed smoothness of their taut skin,
with its tiny tuft at one end, takes her back to
girlhood days spent in this Maine cove where summer
afternoons stretched languidly like colorful beachtowels
along a clothesline of cotton rope tied between a pair of
birch trees outside her grandparents cottage...
plucking one after another she can almost feel the
lard and flour between her fingers while her mother's
voice echoes a reminder that only the coldest water
sprinkled in..only as needed... would make a pie crust flaky
enough to honor this most beloved fruit of summer
holding a single berry, fingers stained with juice the
color of a midnight sky, her hands are the hands of
a girl again...as taut and full of promise as the first
blueberries of summer...
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