Friday, August 14, 2015

The Last of the Basketweavers in the Last of the Wetlands


When you go to gather the grasses,
you better listen to what they’re saying.
To you.

It could be: wait, wait, wait, wait.
Better to burn us. Harvest the new shoots.
Watch for a brushfire.

Or: You are the keeper of worlds.
You are the creator of thresholds.
You are to weave us into intricate keyholes
no one but the wily will see.

Even: We wish we could use your strange heart as
a form to wend around instead of the whiskey bottle
your grandfather left. We wish your fingers felt
more in their nerve endings. We wish you
felt less before splitting us in threes.
We wish you sang like you once did.

And yes, then you can sing your low register
track over the bridge that holds all the sweetness,
all the power of a moment of water beneath it.
Not everything you look for will hear you.
But the one that recognizes the unrepeatable timbre,
the fingerprint in the air, the underbelly of
a molecule’s frame—this is how you will be drawn.
Not to the strands, but to the final shape, the
lovely curve you will be the first to discover
in this medium; the interlock of age and use
and color that never touched before you thought
them into movement.










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