Barb Fraser

In a thicket of purple blue haze

where soft velvet incandescent

the reflection of blueberries

smothers the afternoon into its folds
reminds me of how beautiful I am
infused amongst the birch

and spruce laden with bear claw cones.

There they are

Blueberry queens

mom and grandma

bumps high in the air

in slow motion their hips sway
lost in a wonderful blue world
of togetherness.

At night

when you close your eyes

you can still see them

little blue spirits

I see radiant blue florescent dancing lights
some see giant grapes

others floating blueness.

I adjust the dial on the car radio
Transforming airwaves into sound
aman’s voice
says “Elvis is dead!”
found at Graceland in his pj’s
‘Blue Suede Shoes’ fills the silence
a stone sinks
further into my being
deeper than I ever felt
bluer than I ever been. ,

I yell my news
to Mom who stops to tell grandma
who Elvis was

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