Wild Spot & Some Very Bad, On-The-Fly Poems

O, Sun!

I stopped in my tracks, I paused,
when I came upon the threshold
of my wild spot. Today, with this sun,
rings glory. I did, eventually, start walking,
but more slowly, my head up. The blue jays
are out. The canopy, dissipated,
I see everything that falls or takes flight.
It is one of those days where the sun
is so bright that even the clear air
takes shape, a thin fog. Light so bright
that the invisible becomes visible.
It is quite the phenomenon.

*

[That was actually prose, I broke the structure and rebuilt it into a poem without changing a word.]

The crows are still out. When I get home, I'm going to research how I can possibly attract them to my backyard. And then I'm going to collect leaves for next year's compost. The forest floor is a confetti of golds and browns. Everything is bare and vulnerable to my eye. What a transformation. And how sensational this all is. I want to put leaves in my mouth. I can imagine what they taste like and what their texture would be. This leaf, as I chew it, tastes like water at first. And then bitter lettuce. It's still slightly green and pliable to my tongue. I spit it out.

A day like this makes me want to focus on every single thing.

SMALL WHITE SPIDER

You seem no different,
you white speck crawling
down my black pant leg,
than a louse, a tick,
that blood-stain bug
I'd smash against cement
as a child, feigning pain
with something else's blood.

SPIDER WEBS

The dogbane holds you.
The air plays your trembling strings.
The light wears you.
Diamonds.

DOGBANE

is what native americans used for rope.

First, you pull the dryest,
deadest stalk and peel its fragile bark away,
exposing the taut cord, that thick vein.
Take an end in each hand and twist them
with your thumb and forefinger. Watch
as the air seems to bend it into rope. Watch
the physics of twine and pull and twist. Watch
how something can move contrary to air. Envy
that movement, wish you could do the same.

Then burn it.
Get the excess off.
Tighten the strings.
Tune it.
Boil it
until the water
turns
brown.

*

Before winter comes, I want to build a bird's nest and see if in the spring a bird will use it. I will make it and keep it in the freezer all winter and put it out in the spring. Or perhaps I will keep it outside all winter. I don't know yet. I need to do some research.



[Today, before I walked to my wild spot, I read some poetry that seems to compliment this entry, so here it is.]

MY NOVEMBER GUEST

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

Robert Frost

Many people find autumn to be ugly. I think it might be my favorite season, though. Honestly, I think it is the most comfortable season. I fall along with everything. I settle into things. I crawl into warm areas and dark areas. Part of me hibernates into myself. I make more time for myself. It feels just right.