Half the size,
Twice as sweet,
The wild blueberries of my youth.
I picked and ate my way through the sunny woods,
Never considering my harvest precious.
Today I remember those berries,
As I eat the huge, bland imitations
Bought at high cost far from those woods.
I eat them under the same sun
At a more southern latitude.
Soon even this sun and these berries
Will only be a memory,
As I prepare to move further south yet.
The northern woods of my youth,
The high desert of my adult life,
Will give way to an old age in the tropics.
Green again
But bathed in the soft light of an equatorial sun.
They won’t have blueberries there,
Wild or store bought.
But it’s alright.
I am getting good at letting go.

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