When I feel sad
disconnected
unsure of where I belong
I invite the poet in.
She will remember
the soft yellow-gray belly
of the mocking bird
vibrating as he trills
high above me
on the outer branch
of a tree
at the edge
of the bridge.
Darn, I can’t remember what kind of tree it was. Its branches were stiff and bristly, a conifer of some kind.
Then the poet steps in, flashing her license, and asks, which name sounds prettiest in your mouth? Spruce, pine, cypress?
There is a rhythm
to language
and to life.
You pulse within it,
whether you are aware
of it or not.
After a February lonely
without rain,
the ravine under the bridge
is ugly and dry,
the only water puddled
in a long narrow ditch.
Filled with brown liquid,
a cold muddy brew,
a deep gash leading
to a bundle of sticks—
a beaver lodge perhaps?
Only a fallen tree?
I don’t know, but there are no beavers now. No movement, no life. But wait: there is a turtle, perched at the edge of the brown water, his neck stretched out, his sharp skinny tail bouncing with a sudden flutter in his back legs.
He doesn’t slip into the water.
He doesn’t jump.
He isn’t impulsive.
He will wait,
contemplating his next move.
Here. Alone. Armored.
I rely on my poet.
I ask her to sweep in
to create a beautiful picture.
Or failing that,
some kind
of order,
a bit of comfort.
She’s good at that.
She hands out words
like bus tokens.
You can go somewhere else.
Photo by Sarah Wardlaw on Unsplash
Lovely!