June 2019
Author's Note: After a long Vermont winter, I'm back outside once again reacquainting myself with mud and weeds, nurturing a new golden weeping willow and thinking about poetry, writing it and reading the work of others. Website: triciaknoll.com
I Want to Write
how quaking aspen memorize
the end rhymes of creation myths
how dance classes for willow branches
warm up by sleeping beside the mother
what the frail crown
of a cedar senses when the crow grabs on
the sighs one maple in the sugarbush
shares with its neighbor
I want to write the prayer winds
that fan the ginkgo’s gold
the sonorous eulogies
of giant sequoias for each other
how the Bodhi tree knows
that when it dies another sprouts
how Joshua trees
smell the Santa Ana winds
I want to write a diary of the bristlecone pine
from the day humans invented script
I want to write my own life
one bent twig among many
To Anchor
You surprised me.
I never aspired to be
an anchor, dragged
on the murky bottom,
uprooting slimy fronds,
hiding like a halibut
dug into muck next to
dropped IPhones
or a tarnished earring.
I misread your poem
anyway. You said
you wanted to be an author.
My old eyes saw anchor.
I thought that wouldn’t be
so bad, holding fast,
a mission to keep my ship
safe in the blow-abouts
that make authoring
so drifty.
Found Poetry
Find plunder-verse strung along an axis
between a remnant hitching loop
on a cracked curb and the apex
of city hall. Anywhere.
Or on little beaded strings
weighted with driftwood to evade
kicks from boredom’s worn-out
slippers. The tide-scrubbed shore.
Notice paper signs stuck
in mailboxes asking for
donations of cast-off shoes
for people in Africa.
On collection day, your offers
may be few or small – sandals,
another of pointed-toe vamps
with blue suede buttons.
Don’t be surprised
if you forget which way
you’re going. Or why
you first choose barefoot
and edit it to bare.
© 2019 Tricia Knoll
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