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.
Copyright © Tammy Swank | Year Posted 2016
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