Elegy: Fog and Forage,
Night’s final breath clouds the day,
hides what I already know: the dead,
fallen oak rooted to this side
of our stream that never dries,
now a branched and broken bridge
that crosses into the blue
forested valley where mushrooms
fruit—like revised memories—
from mycelium as old and alive
as a million griefs.
Here, we walked
and foraged. Here, we found
enough to fill ourselves
before the harsh day could dissolve
our shared ghosts and brief
mysteries. What we gathered,
you cleaned and I cooked—tasted
earth and butter on each other's lips.
Today, I search
only for the place where you left
enough for another day’s harvest.
Let the inevitable light rest a little longer;
I want nothing
to do with fogless mornings.
Benjamin Cutler is an award-winning poet and author of The Geese Who Might be Gods (Main Street Rag, 2019). His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize numerous times and has appeared in Zone 3, Tar River Poetry, and EcoTheo Review, among others. Cutler teaches high-school English and creative writing in the Southern Appalachian Mountains of western North Carolina where he lives with his family and frequents the local rivers and trails.