Blueberry babies

We are

squealing out in the field,

limbs akimbo

and

the blueberry buckets sit between our feet, warmed by august sun.

“Look! Deer poop!”

we mimic a squat and drop a handful of berries into the buckets.

Our hands are stained purple

hands that in future fill 25lb buckets in an hour

hands that now procrastinate from filling a 5lb in a day

We are

GIGGLING wildly

“Don’t eat it!”

We give taste tours.

Curious passersby park in the driveway,

follow we four with our sun-browned skin and berry stains

“This is sweet, this is tart, this has more ‘anteeoxidents’!”

There is singing on the acreage, rising from little lungs

gusto and verve

sometimes squabble and silence

We spend summers tanned by blueberry fun,

running barefoot until the wasps come

working for the $/lb to spend at the September fair.

One voice

by one voice

the field empties

year

over

year

until blueberry memories remain

and Mom and Dad alone man the

empty

farm

nest.