Heron Music
It skims the river,
sounding its motif
only in the treble clef.
Swirls its voice again
and again before notes soar
beyond my comprehension.
Music for my eyes
disappears this morning.
It skims the river,
sounding its motif
only in the treble clef.
Swirls its voice again
and again before notes soar
beyond my comprehension.
Music for my eyes
disappears this morning.
The chill of an early
January morning
wrapped in frost and
layers of ice remind
her of the jagged edges of
unbearable loss as the
tears of angels roll down
her cheeks.
She realizes the darkness has
not eclipsed the promise, as
she looks out the kitchen window,
views the magenta hellebore
blooming its own defiant dance
against the cold and ice. More
mauve and white velvet blossoms
peek out of snow drifts graced
with sparkle under early morning
sun as if a child threw a handful of glitter.
The mythical knowledge these same
blooms saved the daughters of Argos
from madness with tea seeped in
petal and leaf gives her hope.
If only she planted more, she
says to herself, to take away
the sweep of winter.
The lenten rose ripe
with forgiveness, lure of the
bluebird as it perches on the
weathered grapevine wreath,
memory of the wild ponies
running along the Eastern shore.
She brushes some flecks of glitter
from her hand.
1870-1872
Sowing, cutting, stomping,
the seasons passed,
and he grew almost as tall
as hemp
stalking
her
from afar.
He would never touch her,
never hurt her,
never harvest
her joy.
He watched her
blossom in a way
that made him blush
on the rare occasions
their paths crossed.
Looking down,
each to their own
shoes,
for fear of breaking
too many rules,
offsetting
the almost peace
that almost came
after the generals sent back the troops.
Hanging in the balance, mere exemptions,
refusing to return to their old tasks.
The reprobates swung high.
He picked petals,
that flew downstream.
He would never suffer
to see her plucked
from this earth.
He swore he’d stop
anyone who tried.
Convert me to Islam
to kindness
to Christ.
Convert me to Hindu,
the trimurti,
HaShem.
Take me from evil and
all those
converted to genocide
to oil rigs
to crucifixtions.
Convert me to conversion
of roads and ideas;
the youth.
Convert all to learning
and kindness
to Earth.
They’d ask you first: How much distance
to bridge this gap?
And then they’d lead you down
to the gullies where the bluffs
bare themselves to you.
They’d test your palms for blisters,
read each crease–crooked creekbeds—
press agate into your pocket.
Could you hold up under
their weight?
And if you’d let them,
they’d show you the dry creek
where the coydogs hide their bones
and how the limestone scarp lists upward
as palisades embrace the Kentucky River.
They’d show you hipbone
on sandstone–where many wild mouths
touched the salt-lick.
Even in a drought year
when the heart cracked open.
Even in the flooding season
when the Kentucky River forgot
and reforged its name.
–inspired by John Branch, “Tracing a River that Was Freed After a Century,” NYT
Dammed by the arrival of
beaver trappers,
gold miners and timber harvesters,
farmers and ranchers,
the river was strangled
by 400 vertical feet of water stoppers
and lake makers.
Not until tens of thousands
of dead salmon and trout washed up
on the lower banks of the river
did the dam-removal movement
gain momentum and the power brokers
pay attention. The sacred fish reappeared
days after the last dam fell.
This month some 30 Indigenous teenagers–
whose ancestors could cross
the Klamath on the backs of salmon–
embarked in kayaks on the 310-mile
First Descent to the Pacific Ocean,
singing a water song to celebrate
the return of their living relative.
Elders blessed the expedition
by burning root of wild celery
and the feathers of a hawk.
The shoreline of lakes have faded
as the river has found its old course.
Now the water that carved the canyons runs wild again.
The young kayakers are naming the rapids.
They are paddling on riffling currents,
passing salmon swimming upstream.
With the journey to the ocean,
all their relatives will be newly connected.
Water has memory, the tribal elders say.
