The World Will Spin Around You

Yank a berry off its stem,
squeeze until it pops,
staining your fingertips
with blue gelatinous blood.

Toss off your flipflops,
step amongst the low brush.
Twigs imprint your soles,
you stand in indigo plenty.

A space that transcends
the circle of time.
A moment
that wants for nothing.

Morning light pools on a pine floor.
Tastes like salted butter,
feels like your mother’s voice.
Wraps you in stillness.

Snow crystals cling to a twig,
sprinkled granules of sugar,
blue, white
impossibly balanced.

An infant’s five fingers
grasp her mother’s forefinger
new, wise
rounded and sweet.

The berries this year
taste like the night,
in this field with no fences,
at the edge of the woods.