Late July, Norton Island
This clear-washed morning
I have become,
quite unexpectedly,
Queen of raspberries.
This Sunday I do not share
lingering along the mud-rutted weed-wracked path
bowl of blue sky above
the cup of my palm
Pleasure replaced by pleasure
no surfeit in this moment
This moment caught in fire-bright jewelweed tangled up the vines
open throats lapped with nectar and
the thrust of bees.
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