Blueberries

Blueberries by Mary Oliver

Post Series: Poetry Thursday

Blueberries

by Mary Oliver

 

I’m living in a warm place now, where

you can purchase fresh blueberries all

year long. Labor free. From various

countries in South America. They’re

as sweet as any, and compared with the

berries I used to pick in the fields

outside of Provincetown, they’re

enormous. But berries are berries. They

don’t speak any language I can’t

understand. Neither do I find ticks or

small spiders crawling among them. So,

generally speaking, I’m very satisfied.

 

There are limits, however. What they

don’t have is the field. The field they

belonged to and through the years I

began to feel I belonged to. Well,

there’s life, and then there’s later.

Maybe it’s myself that I miss. The

field, and the sparrow singing at the

edge of the woods. And the doe that one

morning came upon me unaware, all

tense and gorgeous. She stamped her hoof

as you would to any intruder: Then gave

me a long look, as if to say, Okay, you

stay in your patch, I’ll stay in mine.

Which is what we did. Try packing that

up, South America.

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