RIVER RUN ROOTS
An Artist’s Memoir in 51 Poems
Some Excerpts
9. River Run Roots
Spring rains fuel rippling rapids around willow bend.
Rivulets quest at water’s edge.
Ribbon snake slithers through cattail stems
Bluegills rise to mayfly hatch.
Sycamore limbs provide scaffolding to birds’-eye-view.
Upstream. Downstream.
Ruler of all I see.
Dreamer of what could be.
Climbing trees, paddling river, pedaling paths.
Scabbed knees and dirt-stained cuticles conflict
with church-bound patriarchal perceptions of good girl behavior.
Mother’s hands work with tweezers
to extract black tar bits from bike crash.
Mercurochrome mingles with blood,
drips down chicken legs and bony arms.
Beyond boo boos and Band-aids,
kisses no longer make it better.
Tsk, tsk, escapes pursed lips.
Father shakes head at baggy jeans and flannel shirts.
Slip emotions deep in pocket.
Youth hasn’t learned
to moderate enthusiasm,
modulate intensity,
emulate propriety.
Pockets bulge.
I hunt in meadow for winged beauty.
Chase jerky flight pattern of butterfly
through little bluestem, troublesome sedge, beard tongue.
Trapped in netting,
fluttering stills.
Silver-spotted skipper sacrifice to science.
I place body inside gathering box,
careful not to mar dust-like scales.
Cycle home quick before it hardens,
Secure specimen with paper and mounting pins.
Stalk. Gather. Identify.
Pheasant tail feathers,
hummingbird nest with spider-silk thread,
hognose snakeskin,
opossum skull with prominent sagittal crest.
Cabinet of collected curiosities fills.
Canoe is exploration vessel.
Paddle, minnow scoop, and graham cracker snack.
Swamps, marshes,
ride of river flow.
Scout. Observe. Collect.
Bass fishermen, muskrat trapper, snapping turtle hunter companions on the water.
Summer air is hot.
Painted turtles will be sunning on fallen logs.
Glide in silence.
Catch. Examine. Release.
On the water I know the rules.
13. Farm Life, Farm Wife
Let’s become sheep farmers,
live off the land.
College boyfriend with dark hair and coal-black eyes paints pastoral picture.
Morning mist rises,
baaing carries on the wind,
flocks graze in the distance.
Sugar maples on fire at edge of fields.
Farm for sale near folks.
Words fall like rain on parched soil.
One-hundred-and-ninety-acres of promise,
ancient cobblestone farmhouse,
hundreds of black-faced sheep.
Drive tractor. Bale hay. Fix fence.
Reach inside ewe to untangle twins.
Shuck peas. Snap beans. Husk corn.
Put up pickles. Bake bread. Freeze jam.
Heat with wood harvested by horses,
staple plastic over windows for winter insulation.
Too much rain, too little rain.
Early frost, late thaw.
Sub-zero temps during lambing season,
heat waves during harvest.
Certain personalities ride harsh realities with calm acceptance.
Not my wheelhouse.
Not his strong suit.
Seasons cycle like seeds rolling through callused fingers.
Smooth. Round.
Wrinkled. Rough.
Optimism for dream dwindles as arguments become toxic crops.
We reap what we sow.
Mercurial, church-going, introverted husband incompatible with future.
I load up belongings,
packing regrets into every space
until there is no room to breathe.
I choke on shards of broken dreams
as farm recedes in rearview mirror.
Sapling apple trees will bear fruit without witness,
Litter of barn kittens will catch mice without mention.
Neighbors were right.
I’m not a farm girl after all.
Destiny is untethered
more data gathered from trail of dead ends.
Better sense of self through process of elimination.
What cost that painful approach?
I rub ragged scar on back of hand
branded by an angry ram
when I tried to block his escape.
46. Cross Country
Personal history recedes as wheels turn west.
Mind meanders as
road follows rivers, prairies, mountains, valleys.
Tiny tendrils of creativity surface
with views of sage greens, heathered blues, and saddle-brown tans.
I gather impressions like collected stones on Lake Michigan shores.
She reaches for my hand as eyes leak again.
People move she says
before you, I moved every few years.
Rolling stones gather no moss.
I like moss, I say.
I turn my back on the adventure that was.
Unhitching past like the u-haul trailer we pull.
Cotter pin sticks.
I increase pressure to release roots.
Full Corn Moon follows turning wheels
farmers harvest late by its light.
Autumnal equinox in nigh.