—THERE MUST BE SOMETHING IN THE WATER

 

 

Blueberries

 

Late spring brings

nothing but torrents

the mornings musty

with decay and 

impressive silence

or a best-kept secret

I follow you

like a stooge 

like our old dog 

needy and ashamed 

to be suspicious of 

a season or its claim

These bushes were 

at least forty years 

old when we moved in 

and they’re older now 

everything is 

Around us bees 

bounce and stumble

industriously or obliviously 

depending upon 

the contents of the cup 

you’re holding

Later 

however long from now 

the berries will ripen 

their fruit 

pouched tight 

and purple 

like a bruise that

never heals