Blueberry picking

I carried one boy on my back as I tried to convince the other one to put as many blueberries in our bucket as he was putting into his mouth.  The sun shone bright overhead and warmed our shoulders as we bent towards the bushes.  Cameron fussed from behind me, pulling small twigs and leaves from the bushes when he was close enough.  I wrestled them from his hands, blindly, relying on my three year old to make sure nothing had gotten into his mouth.  When he asked if he could give his brother a blueberry, I said  “Sure, as long as you bite it in half first.”  I watched him choose just the right berry and then pop it into his own mouth.  I bit a berry in half myself and peeled as much of the skin off with my teeth as I could.  “Hey, look at this little tiny one I found! Aww, it’s so cute.”  I reached back and put the peeled berry in Cameron’s open mouth as Casey gently put the tiny berry in our bucket.

We had started out picking Currants, finding vines dripping with the delicate, translucent balls.  Even though they are incredibly tart, Casey kept putting the few he picked into his mouth. With Cameron fussing from the stroller (which we ditched soon after) and lacking the concentration needed to collect the small berries, not to mention the sour reward for our efforts, we quickly returned to the farm store to exchange our small bags for a bucket and were pointed in the direction of the blueberry patch.

This was my first time picking blueberries.  I think I am in love. The color palette alone was enough to make me drool- the frosted blue and lavender berries, the brilliant green leaves, standing in sark contrast to the bright yellow hay piled around their bases.  It made me want to come home and paint our house; to rip up the bushes in our backyard and replace them with blueberry bushes. I had daydreams of a blueberry and lavender farm and I imagined the beauty and abundance of our crops for years to come.

The afternoon felt lazy.  We gorged on blueberry banana muffins while blueberry currant jam cooled in jars on the counter.  There’s still a pan of blueberries in the refrigerator waiting to be mixed into pancake batter, added to tomorrow mornings cereal, and eaten by the handful.  Still, we can’t wait to go pick more.

 

 

 

 

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July 29th-30th in triplicates

Paned Enclave
With the bird feeder empty
and the ground pecked clean
there is little to watch

out the window
but the recycling truck
lumbering by

again- to your delight
there is endless captivation
within the paned enclave

 

The Dance
her eyes were curtains
reflecting the sun
sparkling in the sky

above us. she’s a
reminder to be
still, to gently close

our eyes; that we may
better see the dance
and breathe in the light.

 

Attempting Morning Yoga Outside:
image

June 23

Girlfriends
the pitter patter of conversation
like the rain rattling on the roof
keeps flowing like the wine
that keeps filling our cups.


 

Father’s Day
Reflecting on Your day
I remember his head
chin to chest
lolling to the side
so that you had to sit
back straight,
so he could dream
and you could barely pedal
up the hill


 

By the Beach
again and again
we run down hill
barefoot and giggling
again and again

 

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Moments of Light

As the minutes of your own life open and fall, catch them in poems.”

-Kim Addonizio & Dorianne Laux, The Poet’s Companion

When I first started my blog, part of my wordpress profile read “I’m just trying to find that moment of white, protective light in each day,” or something like that.  I can’t find the exact phrase now but I clearly remember writing this while I was still pregnant with casey.  I was one of those women who loved being pregnant; totally in tune with my body and the growing baby, I was completely zenned, out on cloud nine. During my, almost daily, prenatal yoga practice I experienced moments when I distinctly felt myself surrounded by a protective white light, positive energy radiating outward from my body. That sounds a bit queer, writing it now, but at the time this feeling was very strong, very real.

These days, that light is harder to find but I still search for it.  I find it in small moments through out the day, fractions of a second when our lives become illuminated: The look on Casey’s face the first time we ran through the sprinkler together,  glancing across the room and seeing Alex reading a book to Casey, standing in the shower when my mind suddenly stumbles across an answer to a problem I’ve been mulling over and in the rare moment when Casey is still and simply wants to sit with me to watch the birds out the window.  I catalogue these moments with written souvenirs- short verses that remind me of these heartbeats of light.

From time to time you may see posts, titled only with a date, that contain these souvenirs.  I’ve published one such post here, but wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted to make it a part of The Casey Chronicle until these small moments kept opening themselves to me, inspiring me to catch them with words as they fell.  They may not always make a ton of sense but taken together these compositions form a written record of that date and the moments of light that I found in it.

 

June 12th

On a Hot Day

Barefoot and muddy
wearing jeans that are waterlogged to his knees,
he holds out the garden hose, begging me to reconsider.

 


Out The Window

Two doves and a bunny
together make three
to clean up the aftermath
of the chipmunks jubilee.

 


The Time of Fireflies

The time of fireflies is upon us.
Tonight, just one, but tomorrow
if brief flickers of brilliance
fill the sultry hour of evening,
that hour of delicate shadow fusion,
Will you laugh or try
to catch one like you tried
open-mouthed
to catch the rain?