Wild Blueberries

[bruorton]

Saturday mornings with K 

are blueberry pancakes,

always. Or waffles, on 

occasion. But either way, 

a sacred time together.

This morning, as usual,

I end up with a spoonful

too many blueberries, 

and since by this time

they are already thawed

I simply eat them,

the crisp strange tang

of their juice taking me

not to just any of the

times I have eaten 

wild blueberries 

in my life, but to the one

tiny patch that grew 

near the marsh above

my family's house,

now swallowed up by

the encroachment of trees 

and time, where I

and my brothers spent

so many afternoons

foraging together.