Saturday, August 15, 2009

Blueberrying in August

Sprung from the hummocks
of this island, stemmed,
sea-spray-fed chromosomes
trait-coded, say, for eyes
of that surprising blue
some have, that you have:
they’re everywhere, these
mimic apertures of the color
of distances, of drowning¬–

of creekside bluebells
islanded in the lost world
of childhood; of the
illusory indigo that moats
these hillocks when
the air is windless.

Today, though, there is
wind: a slate sage occludes
the afternoon with old,
hound-throated mutterings.
Offshore, the lighthouse
fades to a sheeted,
sightless ghost. August
grows somber. Though the blue-
eyed chromosome gives way,
living even so, minute to
minute, was never better.

-Amy Clampitt