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Blueberry Surprise

Note: I'm taking a vacation from a regular blog post this week, and instead I'm sharing a poem about a recent blueberry discovery.

I don’t know why

I turned right

when I usually turn left

on my morning walk,

but the biggest surprise

was yet to come.


On the side

of a busy Portland street,

ground a mix

of grass and bubble wrap and plastic bottles,

I found a stand

of high bush blueberries.

Could they truly be here,

a five-minute walk

from my house,

near the bus stop

and funeral home

and bright orange traffic cones?

But they were real,

a wonder to see,

this quintessential Maine fruit.

Eager to save some

from the birds,

I returned, small container in hand,

and spent blissful moments

picking berries.

What did drivers think

in their passing cars,

or did they notice me

at all?

Maybe they were as oblivious

as I had been

every time I drove by

this treasure.

But today

I stopped and wondered

what could be more important

than this

communion with berry bushes,

summer sun just rising,

dew dampening my sneakers,

birds singing,

dusky blue berries

falling into my hands?

I went home

with less than a cup

but spirit and heart


with wonder and delight

for my blueberry surprise.

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