August in the blueberry patch


oh bike summer bike

the dips+equal to you
up down you ride them

sparkling spokes
skidding tire

guttural gears
click the years


what am I
+against time

++small steady passage
body on earth

something/someone dies first
something/someone goes forth


turkey turkey
sixteen turkeys

straying littles
nipped into line

ragged band they
wade open meadow

breaking waves
of gold++ they wake

cackling in branch
and shamble of shade


from the roof of the world
hawksing hawk hawking

I watch the ground fly up
wingless it rises
what gives++what lives
(for now) inside


increasingly blue
and birded
these bushes


reaching into
summer’s purse
its nub and pulse

I pick a bee
a bee picks me

ow ow ow ow says hand
it stings! says body

heart feels it too
venom exploring
its newest container


Last of summer
its berries

soft aunties and grammies
puckered++ mellow

how easily they fall into my hand
succumb to the hum+++humming earth




Image: by Ty Finck on Unsplash , licensed under CC 2.0.

Mary Buchinger:
I love picking blueberries—I grew up on a farm where harvesting fruits and vegetables was commonplace and vital. Now, having lived most of my years in the city, I find I’m flooded with feeling when I enter this particular blueberry patch in Maine that’s become one of my summer haunts. It was established by a man named Ed who bought forty acres to plant six bushes for his mother who loved blueberries As he tended them, he became captivated and eventually planted many long rows of different varieties, learning more and more about the crop. He called the place Ed’s Easy Pickin’ Farm and each day he’d drive there in his small white pickup with his beagle at his side. One day Ed tripped over his dog, fell hard and, soon after, died. A neighbor has taken over care of the blueberries. The patch sits between a stand of pines (sadly, thinned now to a veneer) and a mown meadow that is home to foxes and deer, visited by bear, and traversed by families of turkeys. Timeless and seasonal, this place insists I am too.

Mary Buchinger
Latest posts by Mary Buchinger (see all)


Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.