Indigo

after a while, indigo buntings
come to gorge on seeds. delicate
blue feathers coat their edges and their songs
are bright with anger, fear, and longing.
I’ll never feel joy like them. I could chip
at the sky and fill my belly with blue,
and still my bones will never be hollow,
still I will never sprout wings.

the huckleberries are blooming on the mountain.
little bells that the bees bumble out of with faces
covered in pollen and stomachs full of nectar.
soon the flowers will shrivel and leave a hard
green berry that will expand and redden,
soften and darken, as if taking one slow breath.
The mountainside will burn with purple fruit
and the bears will become heavy with joy
as they trundle from bush to overburdened bush.
I long to pluck one and crush its vibrant skin
between my teeth, taste its sweet juice
and wild-grown bitter seeds. But the mountain
wears only blossoms for now. All I have
are preserves, frozen berries, and a memory
of ripe, wild-picked berries from last year.
Maybe this year, if I eat enough, I too can learn
to resist cultivation.