into the morning blender—

strawberries
that hitchhiked their way from california,
grown in raised rows
through the fog-cooled fields
that hug the west coast,

and wild blueberries,
spreading low by root and rhizome,
plucked from the acidic barrens
of rural downeast maine,

with half a ripe banana shipped up from ecuador,
cut green from the plant
in the humid coastal lowlands,
where the roots sink deep into volcanic ash,

topped with the plain milk of new england cows,
a peeling label recalling
the old garelick factory off the lynnway in lynn
now quiet, but still nodding
to an even quieter time.

all this— pulsating, vibrating,
a tornado of atoms,
colliding and smashing,
and me with a first sip, thinking:

how could anyone question how a universe is made?