branches big and small
We lived beside a bridgeless branch that flooded
the whole time I was a kid. Down a canopied path,
we went through, or went around.
No bridge. Before me, maybe,
my parents remember
their wood bridge. Perhaps swept away
in between the years. It’s squat concrete now,
for all it’s worth. Just a low meander
in a gully in a thicket. Freshwater bivalves
and bluetipped black butterflies.
Angry black crawdads
and a solitary water snake.
But we were baptized there: I remember
coming up gasping in a big white tee:
the place I used to play made new,
echoing of frogs and foreign Holiness tongues,
my mother’s.
Low and gray high water.
Branches from the branches,
somewhere between ditch, stream, and river.
19 thoughts on "branches big and small"
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“Low and gray high water.
Branches from the branches,
somewhere between ditch, stream, and river.”
I thought it worth repeating 😀
Great way to run the list.
Brilliant. As. Always!
I’ve come to expect beautiful and insightful poems from you, Shaun. You produced again. “But we were baptized there” took me in so many lovely directions.
This a gorgeous poem Shaun! It tells so much and very concisely without loosing its soul and grit.
I feel this memory in my bones— baptized in the south fork of the river there in Beattyville. Thank you for sharing.
“ Just a low meander
in a gully in a thicket. Freshwater bivalves
and bluetipped black butterflies.
Angry black crawdads
and a solitary water snake.”
This list and delicious sounds on the tongue. You write “place” so so very well, man.
I grew up in a place where in and out was over a muddy wagon road and through a clean flowing stream that
flooded in heavy rain, and kept us in the house for days.
Shew!5x Shaun “Just a low meander
in a gully in a thicket. Freshwater bivalves
and bluetipped black butterflies.
Angry black crawdads
and a solitary water snake. ”
And that last stanza!
So good! Love the frogs and foreign Holiness tongues. There is something so wonderful about bringing the sacred into a common, everyday place and making it new.
So much nostalgia and beautifully written.
Each word and the poem’s rhythm brings this place to life. Every description, each tiny scene within the scenery, builds to that powerful last stanza:
“Low and gray high water.
Branches from the branches,
somewhere between ditch, stream, and river.”
I just love this one, Shaun. Beautiful write.
the flow of the river Shaun takes me in and the oneness with nature cleanses love it when nature and we become one tender writing thank you
This is lovely, especially, “the place I used to play made new, /echoing of frogs and foreign Holiness tongues,”. Those lines made me stop to admire and absorb them, as your writing often does.
Your poems are so visceral! I love (like all here) “But we were baptized there” and the imagery of this. Last stanza: golden.
<3 "echoing of frogs and foreign Holiness tongues,
my mother’s."
also "somewhere between ditch, stream, and river." made me shiver.
Branches from branches! That is great Shaun. Too, I can relate having grown up on creeks and a river.
Shaun, so rich in specific and sensory detail. So moving. My favorite lines are:
“the place I used to play made new,
echoing of frogs and foreign Holiness tongues,
my mother’s.”
“But we were baptized there: I remember
coming up gasping in a big white tee:”
Oh, wow! This!!!! No words.
Meant to tell you days ago, this was my favorite of yours this year. A great recollection, bridgeless branch, gasping in a big white tee … you made me feel these moments, again.