The Visitor
He hath awaken'd from the dream of life – Shelley
Springiness of roots veining trails, roots of trees alive or not – out of dead mossy stumps fiddleheads unfurl. Anemone flower constellations, white, five sepaled stars shimmer in a green heaven on earth – this will be the banner of our secret country. Warblers’ song scarcely cutting through wind – creak of dry branch on dry branch recalls you on your tire swing, hear your calls to push you “Air Force high.” Along tilting trunk of a dead birch, ladder of bracket fungi – not for me to climb to your blue-eye sky. Black capped chickadee interrupts my dream. Maple leaves carpet the ground, coppery red like your hair, turned black under swamp water, shines silver at highest noon – my shadow drawn close to me. Such activity, in this small patch of planet, so small, I could throw my arms around it. A vireo and a pair of cardinals, lend their voices for yours, silenced last summer. The sky doesn’t seek me below – the red leaves don’t wait for me to tousle or brush them, birds only sing to warn me away from their nests. If I don’t quite find you In nature, I find you reflected in this sonata of modest lives.
“The Visitor”: was written at Marblehead Neck Wildlife Sanctuary, April 29, 2022. The line from Percy Blythe Shelley is from Adonais, Stanza 39.
From The Strange Misgivings of the Sadly Gifted (Dead Man’s Press Ink, 2025/2026) Click the link for ten bucks off for readers in the US of A.
That small patch of planet you could throw your arms around, and how it holds everything — the coppery maple leaves like her hair, the "Air Force high" on the tire swing, the ladder of fungi not for you to climb.
The way the vireo and the cardinals have to lend their voices for hers, silenced last summer. Toccante!
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