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Sometimes I find my skin
in the faint, delicate green
of unripe blueberries.
Yours too.

And not the ones so young
the branch still sets them.
I mean berries,
with weight enough
to flirt with tweaking.

At most a touch blush,
a birth of fuchsia
whines like a bruised vein
on each bright, smooth
honeydew nubbin,
round and firm.

I like to pop them off
that tough brown stem-neck
where they suck and clutch.
You need to press
and tug to crack them free.

Sure, they’re not ready.
They hit the cup like marbles.
But they are green and shapely.
You want to roll them in your fingers.
Badly you want to kiss them.
And patience; patience
Is a snickering thing.