THIS YEAR, PICKING BLUEBERRIES
When did we come to this?
Winter always ends, snow
melts into rivulets, into mud.
The birds return, tentative
at first, then loud and bold.
Every spring, the leaves unfold,
daffodils fill the edges with yellow.
There is asparagus again, and peas,
and later blueberries. I was picking
blueberries while she was breathing
her last hard breaths. I knew
it was coming. It’s always coming,
but for callow years it’s nothing
to think about, nothing to fear.
Not untimely now. Not the first,
but nowhere near the last.