I watch the blade pulverize blueberries.
I am lost here, in the landscape of things
being broken apart by the force of change.
The summer ripened surface of blueish black worlds
sacrificed for a new story. Each berry having its turn against
the quick blade of transformation.
The destruction of its crownlike notch.
The sacred place that tethered it to source.
Skin ruptured by the edge of reconstruction revealing
its jelly like insides. Fragile inner being.
Little seeds slipping out from itself,
not to be planted but incorporated.
I watched and watched.
Matter can be neither created nor destroyed.
There is only the remaking of what already is.
I was exhausted enough to understand the truth.
The smell of sweet frozen macerated blueberries
rose as my fingers peeled the lid off the glass.
I poured the new life of this clan
into my one clean jar. My shadow self
wrapped her rage up in my favorite throw
and put my slippers on.
She sat at the table next to me,
soothed by the unconditional love of my cats.
I drank as Miles Davis blew his horn through
my small speaker.
The cool mixture slid down my throat as I thought,
“Everything is as it should be.”
