24 June 2020

Waiting for Magic





This poem tells me it’s tame and local, but

wild enough to commune with earth, air, fire,

and water as if I didn’t exist.



Like the red fox who moved her kits under

my cousins’ backyard porch, it needs safety

enough to move closer, but no touching.



I lay my hands on pen and paper, and

the poem laughs.  That is not me!  it exclaims

as if it is a god I try to name.



The earth is at stake, it crows, not one fox,

one backyard, one sunset, one dogwood tree.

Could such arrogance lead to unity?



Here I sit among the tools of my life

frozen between extremes of fight and flight,

while an invisible force faces me.



A big black bird lands on the nearest pine

and waits.  The wind stops, too, to see what’s next.

The roses need trimming, but I don’t move.



As if I asked, the answer comes: Because

you wouldn’t listen, no one would, to soft

words from us and those you looked down on.



We are all around you, waiting, sometimes

loudly, to be heard, to be respected.

I fear breathing will break this magic.



But as sun slips into night, and black bird

leaves, I feel a faint breeze.  Under my hand

the words stand “Forget magic, we need you.”



  

For earthweal weekly challenge: CULTURE AND NATURE





My blog poems are rough drafts.
   Please respect my copyright. 
 If you quote, credit this page.
     © 2020 Susan L. Chast



16 June 2020

An Indoor Song for Mother Earth




source


 

Yesterday, rose bushes called to me, and I picked

up lopping shears to trim their growth.  Surprisingly,

the thorns didn’t prick my skin when I gathered the cut

branches to mulch them.



The red rose bush trimmed, I turned to the yellow climber

and relieved her of her dead weight, removed the bind

weed that strangled her, and watched her lift new buds to

the sky.  One bud sits here.



In my tower with open windows, I enjoy her scent.

I shortened her life when I took her in for me

alone—into my short tower, into my small

home.  Yet, she helps me sing.



Thank you, Mother earth, for this ground, this joy, this grace

as I, imperfect, harm you a little less than before, as I try

to share you with those who have no gardens.  Please take these

tiny notes as true.  I love you.





My blog poems are rough drafts.
   Please respect my copyright. 
 If you quote, credit this page.
     © 2020 Susan L. Chast