Blueberries In The Wild Poem by Bill Galvin

My nana shared those first lessons with me
About the value of those gifts that Nature presents us.
There was one huge wild high-bush blueberry
Which sat at the edge of coastal forest and salt marsh;
And numerous low-bush berries
Scattered around the cape cottage my grandfather built;
We gathered them for her delicious pies and pancakes.

Since then I have always been seeking remote wild blues,
Growing hardy in this harsh boreal climate;
Thriving in the poorest glacial soils;
On hillside barrens or in clefts of granite ledge.

I have found them all over my years and my trails;
In New England, New York, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Quebec;
And my soul is lightened when I am among those beauteous blues.

I admire the naturalness of a perfectly shaped wild berry;
A cluster hanging pale-blue against the rich green of its leaves,
Or hiding in the shadow of stunted balsam or birch branches.

This season the rain has been spare on these Maine hills;
The growth underfoot is crispy; the lichen masses are crunchy.
But, the weather is perfect for people on this warm August day,
And the wind is constant and cools things down just nice;
And I'm leaning across and stretching from a granite ledge,
To pluck the nearly out-of-reach precious blue motherlode,
Where the sea fog rolls in, and sun and shade are just right.

This year's pickings are slim; the fruit is small to medium-sized;
The amount gathered for the energy expended is low;
But the tiny wild berry still is worth that priceless flavor.

And it might just be a yoga within the seeking that I'm doing,
When I plant my foot here and stretch just one, no, two more inches,
To reach those bleuets hanging just a whit and a whisper away;
And look, if I place my hand here and then swing my body there,
And hold my varying postures till I have cupped all the ripe ones,
And grab onto that birch bush to help prevent a slip,
And the warm updrafts hold me against this slope… well,
Then my movements will be fruitful, and not for naught.




Sometimes just sitting amongst the plants in the mountains,
With an unfettered breeze blowing between my ears,
Sweeping out the unnecessary, the unwanted, the pointless…
That has been a nirvana of mine all through my life.

Or, it might be the moments,
As they begin to slow, to merge, to blur…
They move…
From search of berry, and recovery of muscle burn,
From thought-forming plans, and complex concepts…
They go…
Toward deep drafts of satisfaction,
Toward observing close-up the smaller worlds,
Toward non-cohesive silent pleasantries,
Toward unrelated words of calm;
And picking the berries becomes the poem…
The peace… the psalm;
The zen of nothingness is all that fills the mind,
As solitary emptiness soaks in through the spirit's rind,
And sounds of summer silence, and views of the sea
Envelop, possess, and rephrase me.

Just breezes, balance, being, and the berries…
A welcome, pleasing, Natural monotony.

August 17,2017 (Acadia, Maine)