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Blueberry Picking
By Elias Dahger
Th e August heat oppress’d us into sloth,
We two, the only pickers in the grove
of countless butterfl ies, those greater moths
who fl utter in an out of fruity love
A single bramble lent us shade to rest
her leafy caverns pregnant with her fruit
I laid my head upon your rip’ning breast,
your skin far sweeter than our berry-loot
But twice or thrice a sour pod I taste
’Tis yet too young, that fruit, too immature
’tis as a moth, whose spring is still incased—
not yet a butterfl y of deep tincture
From me you fl y, to foreign fl ow’rs you leave
but I, in groves await you, slender Eve
magus ~ 82 ~ mabus