A plastic bucket hangs from your canvas belt,
while I place mine on the grass between my sneakers.
Either way, we're using both our hands. These bushes
are so lush it's like bushwhacking in a thicket. Plink
plank plunk. Blue globe by blue globe, our buckets
fill. Tactile. Nubile. Faint blush of silver on each
blue orb. Later: pies, buckles, pancakes, compote
with Limoncello. The late day sun slices through
the bushes, making it impossible to see anything
but the path in front. Neither of us can see the stroke
up ahead, taking your right hand, your vision,
your short-term memory. Or the virus that has kept
us apart. Right now, the air is ripe with fruit,
and you are fumbling under my shirt, harvesting
sweetness now, while we can.