Daughter zeroed in today on the drama of a chapter ending in her book:
“Something had happened. Something was wrong.”
I would not have noticed these words as written objects, but I am glad she did; hearing them repeated in her quiet reading voice, layered with excitement, was lovely.
From my chapbook “Spinning Pins,” forthcoming:
Correspondences: pumpkin to moon to light bulb.
Bird’s breast to nest.
Just as the body of the bird both shapes and inhabits the nest, the house is human-sized.
If it is too small it may put the mind in a shell.
But if it is too large, it oddly replaces the body, because while its half-acre rooms and aggressive facade might inflate its occupant’s standing, they also render his body a pathetic miniature when set against their proportions.
A horse enters a stone barn through the man-door. Wild turkeys, half a dozen, heave themselves into the tops of tall trees.
I identified wild ginger on a hike the other day–Sunday–and I’m still feeling glad. When I was a child, there was almost no sense in which a particular species existed in reality: One could read about anything, but having an encounter, even with an earthworm, seemed somehow impossible–not in the sense of being impractical, but just on an unreal plane, like fairies. Now I am learning a few names, a few forms, and it opens a universe of possible and immanent meetings–suddenly, quietly, something is there. It is a thrill.
Wild ginger produces its blossom right down on the forest floor–this one was concealed under leaves–because its pollinator is a crawling beetle, not a flying bee or moth. The flower is pale red and looks as durable as a helmet.
Plants make houses for ants inside special chamberlike leaves, and then ants build up detritus inside the houses, and the plants grow roots through the ant duff so they can help themselves to nutrients. “In effect, the ants are paying rent in return for a place to live.”