Fern Creek Woods
Rae, our oldest daughter, gave Mark and me a book of her poetry in 2003. She had crafted these poems during a two-year period when we lived states apart and didn’t have a good idea of her Montana life. I re-read them this week, blessed and impressed again with her way with words. She inspired me to try poetry to capture some of what this Fern Creek life holds for me.
the spotted towhee scratches away leaves, dirt–
insects, seeds, cherries dropped from the sky
a veritable feast
nearby digs another—
metal blade, double-gloved hands
tossing roots, sweat, grunts
fighting on behalf of maidenhair ferns, indian plum, and trillium
so she says–
ripping up invading armies
pregnant prickly vines–
even if next summer’s sweet black fruit.
she will not win this war.
(she knows full well).
the towhee watches–
wondering what nourishment