I'm living in a warm place now, where
you can purchase fresh blueberries all
year long.  Labor free.  From various
countries in South America.  They're 
as sweet as any, and compared with the 
berries I used to pick in the fields
outside of Provincetown, they're 
enormous.  But berries are berries.  They
don't speak any language I can't 
understand.  Neither do I find ticks or 
small spiders crawling among them.  So,
generally speaking, I'm very satisfied.

There are limits, however.  What they 
don't have is the field.  The field they 
belonged to and through the years I 
began to feel I belonged to.  Well,
there's life, and then there's later.
Maybe it's myself that I miss.  The
field, and the sparrow singing at the
edge of the woods.  And the doe that one 
morning came upon me unaware, all 
tense and gorgeous.  She stamped her hoof
as you would to any intruder.  Then gave
me a long look, as if to say, Okay, you 
stay in your patch, I'll stay in mine.  
Which is what we did.  Try packing that 
up, South America.

("Blueberries", Mary Oliver, printed in Blue Horses, 2014)