Blueberry Picking

I can't seem to stop writing poetry or reading poetry. I think it is safe to say I love poetry and I love sharing great poetry with others.

Under the Honeysuckle, blue as the skies

in hands of a mid-western girl

where strings of bright blueberries match her eyes

blue dyes every curl.

These ripe delicious blueberries on my block

where lies dead song bird

pale breasted with broken wing lying on rock

songs no longer heard.

A beautiful woman stands smiling at me

blueberries staining her tears

offers me her fresh picked fruit: I will see

tonight we could forget our fears.

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