|
|
[After
Four Years of Amphibian Research] [A
Cloud Blooming]
After
Four Years of Amphibian Research
1.
This afternoon,
twelve miles up the Skokomish,
I turn a stone in a creek,
find a string of white eggs,
like a rosary of rare gems.
I bend to them,
kneel in the stream,
hold them in my hand,
fingers trace each egg.
By evening, I'm home,
working on a paper titled,
Nests of Ascaphus truei -
but nothing in those words
draws a picture of a biologist
on his knees in amber light.
2.
After four years of research,
I have stacks of data, graphs, tables
that tower and darken like an old forest.
I also have a small string of moments,
and like the frog that hides its eggs
beneath a stone, I keep mine tucked
beneath thoughts, away from Science
and rationalization, where the light
of words cannot reach, cannot taint
I rummage through my mind,
the same way I survey streams:
hunched over, net in hand, turning stones -
some of those eggs have hatched,
small black tadpoles squirm away
towards light, wanting
to be recognized, asking
for a language.
From Song of
the Winter Wren by Patrick Loafman.
Reprinted by agreement with Lone Willow
Press.
Copyright © 2001 Lone Willow Press. All Rights
Reserved.
|
A
Cloud Blooming
Imagine this desert is metaphor.
Imagine the cracked skin of the earth so dry it bleeds.
Imagine toads with spades for feet, planting themselves, dormant as seed.
If I told you the broken glass was diamonds would you caress the shards?
Imagine this poem is a true story.
Imagine parents with spades burying their boy by the garden.
Imagine generations buried in your backyard.
I could say the laundry flaps like doves pinned to a line.
Imagine the desert is money.
Imagine saguaros sprouting price tags; rain sold by the drop.
Imagine a caged coyote; tourists with tickets to watch it pace.
I could say the wind twirls the dust like a dancing partner.
Imagine a cloud blooming into a flower.
Imagine a raindrop, a storm, a river over-flowing its boundaries.
Imagine praying to the coyote, the raven, the snake.
If dropped a grain of sand on your back would its weight make you kneel?
Imagine toads hatching, gathering in circles: pow wows around puddles.
Imagine a single peeping toad, then four, eight, a chorus ringing.
Imagine a dove, white as a handkerchief, flapping in the wind, free.
|
From Desert Journal
by Patrick Loafman.
Reprinted by agreement with Lone Willow
Press.
Copyright © 2001 Lone Willow Press. All Rights
Reserved. |
