Blueberry Preserves
Mountain in late summer:
we pick blueberries together,
the ones just ripe,
with glaucous bloom
and wet with dew,
savor sweetness, laughing,
“Taste this,” you say,
and my hand touches yours
as I reach for the fruit,
then we pause —
a thrush,
leaving soon,
flutes
from the woods,
the light has changed,
and now there’s wind:
it’s time,
so we head back down,
our pails full.
That night
I stay awake
and put up these preserves
for later on.