Bartlett Arboretum Writing Marathon 4

Sometimes the experience of a Writing Marathon helps me to blend a project/piece that’s been floating incomplete in my head.  I wanted to share a poem that came together as a result of the journaling I did during this experience:

And the Grasses Speak

Part I
There is a smell of lush soil and verdant moss. Like Leia,
I want to dig through the gravel for some smidgen of
some little shell to keep in my pocket, to remind me of
time swept oceans on our dry plain, to remind me of what
this moment feels like,
right here overlapped by right then,
the sun warming the soreness from my gut and shoulders,
and I know there will never be enough breakfast
to feed this day.
I will never be full.

Part 2
Grasses grow from a pot, growing, blowing tendrils of hair,
the tips nearly furry and splayed in the wind. I want to dwell
among them, listen to the sweet tenor of the soil sisters putting
their fingers to soil, sending prayers through the ground, sweet
thoughts travelling up roots, lifted more pure to heaven.
They whisper, “Speak to me of eternity,”
and the grasses say,
“you have already been there, but you have forgotten the memory.
Trees remember,
the soil rejoices,
the flowers speak of it,
but you do not have eyes or ears
or the mind to recall,”
and we grasp soil,
our fingers desperate to remember.


One thought on “Bartlett Arboretum Writing Marathon 4

  1. Meg says:

    Oh April,
    How clearly your words portray the spiritual infilling bestowed by my every visit in this Arb’ and my inability to get enough of the place, in, “I know there will never be enough breakfast to feed this day. I will never be full.”
    Part 2 gives voice to the grasses and trees and reveals what they’ve been whispering as they’ve pulled me like powerful magnets into their presence, whether in field, woods, or garden. It is in sacred songs sung in color, fragrance, and breeze plucked needles and leaves that they sing Eternal Truths. How ironic that in our tending to them, they so completely tend to our spiritual needs, as in, “we grasp soil, our fingers desperate to remember.” April, this poem is a treasure. Thank you.

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