by Kersten Christianson
Soon
those blue-
berry moon picking
fingers will stain bright
violet hues. You forage in the light
of the berry moon, drop fruit in a Folgers
can fastened by rope, buffered by the curve
of your body. Pulled into the dream of a bear
sharing its abundant crop, blue shadows
in wild moonlight, the moon so round you could reach
into the night sky
and pick it.
1 comment:
Of all the various names for the August moon, I like this one the best. Blueberry Moon! Your poem is lovely.
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