Sweat clings from her nose,
makes beads on her lashes,
collects in her collar bone
like hot summer rain.
She melts in the sun-steeped air,
drips onto the dusty ground.
As soft and as sweet as the warm berries
she plucks from the bush
and tips to her mouth.
A blueberry baby needs no thorns to guard her.
She welcomes all those
with patience who wait
for those hot summer months
that rid her of tartness,
fill out her sun-sweetened face,
so that each lovely expression
is pulled from her willingly.
An overwhelming harvest
to outlast cold months.