To walk as far as she is —
farther than the legend of my father —
is to skirt, carefully lifting the wet branches,
around a blueberry patch.
Horses arc yoked to bears
in these fields.
One eye is a blue forest, the other the sea.
Bees come to comb their tresses in the apples of her hair.
From time to time, the thought of the sea-splashed granite.
And then suddenly:
“Here it is!” resounding in the evening snow of the next season, at dusk.
And children’s voices carrying across the valley like winged icicles.
To go to her is to step
(skirting the wet branches)
slowly
over a blueberry patch.