Lowbush law or just light’s kindness, slightly acidic
hills exhale to fruition tiny crowned spheres. Thin red
liquid is clear but wrong. Their berries are alas false
accessory fruit, flesh from the surface of petals.
What’s beneath becomes second nature. Geometry
of rhizomes, dirt, gossip, antioxidants, memory.
Come July, ripe museum hours, the dead-on pigments,
Rayleigh scattering. When every non-fiction begins
to factor in the predictive power of petals.
Pale white lampshades, designed to keep all the good light in.