This story
is as old as nature, and unending,
when blueberry bushes scream
at the Eternal because their lifeblood,
juicy and ripe get crushed and frozen
by a freak, once-in-a-century ice storm in July.
But what have the motherly, thorny bushes
ever done against God.
What sin have the sweet, perfectly round,
purple berries ever committed,
except maybe to be called blue, a lie?
That can be traced back to Adam.
God shrugged, lifted Her hands and said:
earth needs both wet and cold.
How the earth works is so intricate
that even I, who molded the whole thing,
no longer recall how the pieces fit together.
And then there’s the wine that complains
that it turns too fast into vinegar,
from sweet and heady to sour
and scratchy to the throat,
and where is the fun in that?
But, She twanged, vinegar preserves things
–cucumbers, watermelon rind and meat—
so that they are sustenance for winter.
That rule I know. Sugar and dandelion greens
will marinate until morning.
By then the meat will own its taste.
About the Author: Canadian-American, Lenore has lived most of her life in Rome, Italy. A professor of Academic Writing as well as a translator and poet, she has taught at universities in Rome and Kansas, surrounded by the Seven Hills and the prairies. Living in three countries and never quite fitting anywhere becomes a country all its own. Being a translator and teacher by trade means manipulating words and ideas so they fit together; poetry most likely lies at this intersection.
Her chapbook Tendrils was published by Moonstone Arts Center, and her poetry has appeared in Poetry is Like Bread, the Bowery Poetry anthology of ghazals, as well as The Poetry of Lockdown 2020, Verse-Virtual, and The Westchester Review.
Image Credit: J. Marion Shull “Image of the No. 837 variety of blueberries (scientific name: Vaccinium corymbosum)” Public domain image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
