Tuesday, April 5, 2016
Buy or pick a few pints of them
and you feel as though
you’ve struck it rich.
Suddenly it’s blueberry everything:
pancakes, pies, tarts and cobblers;
a stampede of berries in your cereal
that stains your teeth dark blue.
They sprout near the coast in low fields
that get burned every other year;
they say ash sparks a sweeter crop.
You stand beside a row of low bushes,
nothing special, an ordinary green
until light strikes at just the right angle
and all at once tiny spheres appear,
an intense blue hue,
a field of sapphires
far as the eye can see.
Posted by Ralph Fletcher at 8:39 PM