I’m picking blueberries, (she said to me)
tomorrow morning
until I don’t know when
and she became June too, for a moment.

all her pink, and lavender,
her summer-colored hair and
heartshaped face
peeked out,
into the evening.

I was reminded, again
of flowers and of blue,
of the ways which we can be
on a warm early morning

when berry juice has stained our fingers
the sun painting our clothes white
and our shoulders
olive brown

(when she left, what remained
were the colors, and temperatures,
of the June evening that enclosed her)
and the reminder
of blueberries.