Picking Blueberries
John Palen
We work apart, each knowing by now how the other does things. I thumb berry from stem, gather ten in hand to drop in a pail. They're clean, no need to pick debris out later. You grab ripe and red together, leaves, stems, mummies and all, fill three buckets to my two. No one goes hungry in your house. At the slope-roofed shed, morning haze just lifting now, we stand before a girl working the counter who weighs us out, dumps everything together, renewing our vows.