Picking Blueberries

We’ve come from far away Like all the others. A morning spent on lonesome dirt roads Searching for the blueberry farm; Endless acres of hazy blue groves. The pickers trickle in. We step out of our cars Into the dust with straw hats To block the blistering sun. The owner sits on her porch With stacks of clean buckets And a chest of cold bottled water. It is the hottest day of the year. Dirt and sweat gather on our necks As we hurry to the shady rows. It is on sad occasion that we come To pick the wonderful berries, Disturbing them from their thickets, Taking them before their end is due. The sweetest ones taunt us Just out of arm’s reach. We are no better than the canker And worms that kill. The owner graciously snaps a photo To mark the day. We huddle close in goofy grins, Sun burnt with buckets teaming.