By Patricia Clark
In Praise of the Dickcissel
O small meadowlark,
o bunting,
bird with gold on your
crown and breast,
a black vee, some chestnut
on your wings, you love
meadows and savannas,
red-tipped grass, you
perch there, swaying, in
sunny grassland
near the wastewater
treatment plant,
the shit, the clogged
plastic from pipes, drains,
toilets, and the raw
stink that’s on the wind.
The smell catches in our
hair, clothes, fills
the car that is our
blind to approach you.
O bird, you own these
nearby fields and dusty
road where we saw,
too, an upland sandpiper.
You endure it, and we’ll do
the same, imperfect
stinking world, grassland
and the marginal place
where beauty dwells.
The strawberry moon has come
and gone, at home our
garden with basil, fennel,
parsley, chives grows leggy,
not yet the harvest, not
yet time for birds to
fly away. O stay, dickcissel,
singing where you
sway, till your throat burns.
After you’ve flown,
what will we do,
who or what will
console us?
Failing at Tree Identification, I Walk out to Greet the Bald-cypress
Because I enjoy the syllables,
how they roll on my lips and tongue—
gymnosperm, angiosperm,
because I have known pine cones, gathered them
in my pockets, examined them
with a microscope,
and known, also, seeds—in pods,
hidden in green coating like a ball—
I walk along the marsh and greet
the bald-cypress, aflame still
with new growth,
and I agree to lay down my jealousy
of its wood eternal,
consenting to flame, to ash,
to cloud of smoke.
That’s how I will go.
Controlled Burn
It came in the mail, an official
looking letter with the seal
of our government, or at least
the county agency in charge
of setting fires, putting them out.
It described a strip of land
across the highway from us,
they defined what a swale was,
saying this is it—and they told
what they hoped to burn out,
though now my memory grows
uncertain—mustard garlic, for one,
purple loosestrife, perhaps, and a plant
called knuckleweed, maybe, or was it
knucklehead? They wanted us to know,
to stay clear of the area on a certain
date, or to object in writing if we had
concerns. Their promises grew
large: the watershed would be enlarged,
color and flavor of the water improved,
and I’m sure they said we would all
sleep better at night, though that seems
a stretch. It came about just as they
said—the date came and passed, we saw
a little smoke, nothing more. One day
we drove over just to see—and the strip
that was green was burnt black, a sign
told the tale, our water never changed
and our sleep was just as restless
as before. No one I knew remembered a thing.
Avian-Political
Warbler, goldfinch—what
are you? Dark-eyed
yellow-green, at dusk,
you flit on sumac stalk,
blackberry vine, sipping
drops, eating bugs.
Brief friend, I am
lonely—where do you
go? Could I tag along
south, keep up with
your flight? There’s
nothing here in human-
land I want. We waste,
squander, bitch and then
don’t vote or act. Headed
for the brink, to be
extinct—let’s escape,
and soar, while we can.
Almost Earth Day Again
The cold rain, trees still
without leaves.
And next to me, the honeysuckle
with small leaves
like ears perking up.
It can’t go on forever.
That’s a concept I understand.
When do I fold the tents?
Put away the field guides,
feather, acorn, chunk
of stone?
Here a lavender wand,
ribbons discolored now,
the day vanished, my sister
become ash.
Down below, leaf litter and one
white plastic bag
mashed to the ground,
a starfish holding on
as the sea recedes.
Coveting the River Birch
Because the bark peels off,
it flays itself and allows
the inner surfaces to be
seen and known—
A papery bark that is white
on the outside.
Peeled back, the inner
surface has a blush
or peach color—an
admission of how
private this side is.
Three birches in one
group, two in the other.
To stand together
is to shield oneself a bit
from scrutiny.
I could be that brave
peel back and show
After years on guard
finally open to bracing touch
expecting pain from it
Instead, tender air, warm at last.
Mallards At Rest
The woods regal in copper, russet,
gold, and the air seemingly spun gold
though it is November. Over planks
of the bridge, we cross the lagoon where
down below, along water’s edge, mallards
have tucked wings, feathers and heads. Only
green on their crowns shows. I know any
moment they could startle up into
ducks—for now they linger as feathers
over warm bodies asleep in a
world easily able to harm them.
Like sleeping children or any group
of innocents, let them rest for now—
the dispossessed, lost, astray, wayward
travelers who, if they can find peace
for a nap, in shade, let them be.
For the Atlas Moth
Your life of only three days
began far from jungles
of Southeast Asia,
and I mourn for the loss
of greenery, your waking up
on display in a Plexiglas
hatching booth in the Northern
Hemisphere, Grand Rapids,
Michigan, to be exact.
Moth, I admire the chestnut
brown-white-and-black
swirls and spots of your
beautiful wings, large as
palm leaves, your thick
unsegmented body, antennae,
noting how like a snake’s
head—one about to strike—
the marks have been
made, a painting drawn
to confuse predator birds.
Where you attached yourself—
glass sterile between us—
I raised my hand—
each wing larger than that.
In flight, a wingspan
greater than one foot—
a humbling shadow cast.
When the chirpy volunteer
said “Note that it has no
mouth,” my sorrow began
deepening—your time spent
being born, drying those
gorgeous wings, the hurry
to find a mate—that fumbling
in dark haste, lying
together and then dying.
Will you find a mate
here among tropical ferns,
banana plants, colorful
orchids of purple,
gold, and white?
How much does your DNA
long for salt sea air
of Asia? My questions
trail beyond your life.
I offer them as elegy.
Patricia Clark is the author of The Canopy (2017, Terrapin Books), her fifth book of poetry. She teaches in the Writing Department at Grand Valley State University where she is also the university's poet in residence. Find her recent work in Alaska Quarterly Review, Smartish Pace, New Letters, North American Review, and Blackbird. She was the poet laureate of Grand Rapids, MI from 2005-2007, and she has been awarded residencies at the MacDowell Colony, at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and at the Tyrone Guthrie Center in Ireland.