Blueberry bluebells
sing, imperceptibly
sighing
against a backdrop of
quiet cerulean.

You know
it is Spring when
their hazy grasses
sprout beautifully
thick in the blades
between the primrose,
and when the sun
infuses shafts
of bronze to the lilac
through the giant
ash's baby
leaves.

At the third street on the left
from Bourbon Street,
the reddish brown waterline
follows us to the hotel

The sleek white walls appear
to be from ‘after Katrina’
like many here

In the spring sun
the pale green lies deserted
in the shadow of
a long line of soot
coughing cars

Where Sachtmo's park
seems forgotten
after cleaning and renovation

is the home of this
other musician with worldly
allure, like a fresh blueberry
on a flat beaten hill
full of loose ends

In the mixing bowl
thou hast perfected praise.
Conforming to your mould,
your flaky crust begins to rise.

Steamy and buttery out of the oven,
you make my life chill,
when the morsel of butter enters the
    blueberry canyon
to have its fill

Chemically inducing nirvana,
a world in the eye of God,
blueberry bursts of epic epicness
down my throat you trod.

In my stomach you swim, my friend.
"It is not good for muffin to be alone,"
pop goes the cherry muffin to join you,
and in swims a blueberry clone.

Nom nom nom.