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Blueberry Picking, a poem by Charlotte Melin

Blueberry Picking

We needed this day

to remind us of abundance,

of cyclical renewal—

the mixture of sun and clouds,

the air breathable for once,

the wild clematis a white

lace thick with bees.

The drive to the farm leads

up a wooded hill past

wheat fields turned golden, 

hollyhocks, mallows, poppies,

the barn where swallows

curl by overhead.

The blueberry picking

is good and children’s voices

call out delight to family

in the next row as they

discover the prize. 

Afterwards we walk the path

that looks out toward the river,

gleaning more time in this place,

a moment of pause away from

all that troubles this summer—

the smoke and heat and floods.

Charlotte Melin grew up in Indiana and returns to visit. Recently retired from the University of Minnesota, she lives in Northfield and has published widely about German poetry, the environmental humanities, and teaching.