Ben Boegehold lives in Portland, Maine, with his wife and dog. When he is not teaching high school English, he can be found in his backyard starting endless projects, or walking in the woods.
A Cure
My father tells me about the sunlight, measures
diminishment in vernal equivalent. When autumn
days grow raw and short, we plant before the frost.
In spring we count the shoots poking through the straw.
At solstice, we cut off the pungent green stalks.
Summer tilts toward fall. Now, a sharp sweetness
sparks a fire. Dull tines pierce papery skin.
Yellow leaves, brown hardneck, white roots –
I plunge my turning fork deeper into the clay,
uprooting purple bulbs below. The sweetness
Again – different from the thorny caned raspberries
and the viny peas of July. It lingers long after
I’ve gathered the bulbs in bunches of five
to dry and cure from the wooden rafters.
Erratics
An osprey shimmers above
chiselled granite and spruce.
Her piping cries echo
off tourmaline waves.
Over mountains a white sun
glinting on glacial castaways.
White shells on rocks below.
Rockweed reanimates.
Water recedes.
Water returns.
Water caresses
round stones by the
shore – restless
embrace of goodbye
and hello.