Pick Your Own

On our thirtieth anniversary
Martha and I pick raspberries under a hazy sun
Down a New Hampshire country road,
Its stone fences as random, you would say, as God’s plan.
The owner greets us, cheerful, with a Norwegian lilt,
Proud of the organic farming
Which matters more to her than to us:
Her psychiatrist husband smiles over new potatoes,
  between clients:
They lead a nice life here, we think.
We move up and down the rows,
Bobbing like buoys on a gently rippled pond,
Baucis and Philemon among the raspberry bushes,
Our baskets heaped up with crimson berries and
  love’s gentle certainty.
Vivaldi issues from the farmhouse.