There is a poem brewing in me
As I consider slumber.

A poem waxing toward fullness
Of memories as sweet as the fruits of summer
Handpicked berries that never made it to the basket
That were thoroughly enjoyed in the moment
Indigo blue stained fingertips tell the tale

And with a breathless smile, I delay washing my hands
preferring to conjure again the memory
of the hours spent picking berries
Without a thought
of the passing time