Blueberry Season, 1976
Eileen Walsh Duncan

As the marsh swelters in August, it begins:
the sweet, dappled stain on our hands, the languid shadows.
Three languages between us. One endless task. Each berry
rolling heavily from the stem with drowsy liquid thuds.
When you’re fourteen, and walk a summer under this buzzing canopy,
bathed in dusky racemes, the burgeoning winter is impossible
and irrelevant as adulthood. And you, a refugee
of the war, tossing berries high to catch in your mouth, laughing with glee