Poems

Rush Pond Trail / Kathleen M^cCoy

The other day my daughter showed me
I had to slow her down so we could talk,
allow the woods to shield us from obsessing
on the news. She flicked her flopping ponytail

behind her, smiled—she’d meet me later
at the house—plugged in her music, jogging on,
knowing the trail but not which branch to choose.
My music came from red-eyed vireo and thrush.

Felled white birch bits rested in a bed
of ferns in a room with green couches
of mossed maple; then I saw the forties roadster
careened into a trunk and left to rust,

right door missing, now nest for raccoons,
rabbits, squirrels. Eventually I reached the bridged
marsh, largely green and blooming with water lilies
and the unabashed purples of swamp milkweed.

What pilgrims trekked these woods
before the path was cleared? Acclimated
woodsmen, sticky wood-wise children, herb-
smart women, broad aprons for sacks?

Today my girl is purple wildflower, floating lily,
hers the chatter of invisible vireo, ethereal
song of wood thrush reverberating in the pines;
I, the rusty car, part of my right side missing,

open to air and moss and the steady passing-by of life
in all its forms. Tomorrow I will be the bed of ferns,
the green couch greeting her upon return
from her shadow-laced trail of song and surprise.

in memory of Eva Leah Robinson M^cCoy

Bite into the apple of love, enjoy its juice
and let the seeds fall all around you.

~
Lips and hands must measure
before they dispense their wares.

~
Set an extra plate for an unexpected guest—
someday it could be you.

~
What you most despise in your sister’s eyes
is what your own reflection reveals.

~
Darkness and rain
bring birdsong.

~
A stately house shrinks beside the simple one
whose walls vibrate with laughter.

~
To stand your tallest,
plant your feet on rock.

~
No one can schedule a natural birth
and it isn’t over when the cries begin.

~
Ask for your desire and when you receive it
offer it up again.

~
When the sun shines, focus its light in your body
and when the rains pour down, the rocks will gleam before you.

~
Take the hands of children for they fix their eyes on you
and when you grow weak they will scoop you into their arms.

~
The race goes to the horse
who runs for utter joy.

Kathleen M^cCoy

Birches in Snow

It’s not the falling flakes that halt me
but the quick gust that kicks them,
not tenacity of brown leaves clinging to the branch
but how the white shawl settles there,

not blackness bleeding on the porous page of the world
but the sponge of light that catches it,
not the hard, slick ground
but its gradual softeningso my every step leaves
an imprint that will only
last so long.

Simple Praise

For barberry thorns, curled tresses of birch,
seeds of pomegranate and grape, for awe
of threes, small miracles of knees
that bend and hands that scrape,
gesticulate, mold, touch—for a world
dressed in gold with cape and skirts of pollen,
then blue and white with shadow and light,
for querulous rodents nesting in our wood,
for the child who sheds her heavy pack
to stretch her willow arms toward sun,
for every branch-born song that descends,
for dry islands on slick glacier ground,
working muscles’ hum, hearts’ synchrony,

for a world gone green again, its aching presence,
resplendent in our pauses, for whirled
perception teasing at the edge of sight, Orion
loosening his belt to the tune of galaxies’ spinning,
for the black holes that vacuum up dying stars
and the white holes that whelp them,
corpuscular joy that erupts and leaves a spiral trail,
for singing, clear or raspy, from belly and eyes,
for your fingers laced in mine,
for pink streaks at dusk, for rain made
of cherry blossoms, for darkness, for hail,
for swimming together in silence, in words—
praise for the litheness of limbs, lines

around a pensive mouth, cool crispness of cotton,
for your salt tongue, the black
forest of your chest, our bodies’ blur, praise
for the way your steps sound sure and tentative
at once—praise for ignorance,
praise for bliss, for I know nothing
but long to learn love’s alphabet tonight—
praise for fire which, though it burn our house,
graces with clearing to start again—
praise even for urns of our dead, for ash
that can never contain us, praise
for fluidity on the horizon of our days.
Just praise.

—Kathleen McCoy