The Garden Man

I wrote this poem in response to the sculpture "Garden Man" by Bob Turan at Art in the Orchard. What I love about this piece is how the figure's body becomes whatever is behind him. He's solid yet transparent. He's static, but when something moves in him, he seems to move, too. He's also making an opposite gesture from Mount Tom (seen in the background), which makes him seem to me like another mountain watching over the valley.

The Garden Man

Today a dog and three people

passed through my heart.

The apples were ripe

and they’d come to pick.

They didn’t see me:

I am everything they already know

but I welcomed their motion

in my stasis of green.

I was made to shelter growing things,

not to move them.

And in the sheltering

I become them.

My arms are squash blossoms

and the apple-laden orchard.

My legs are the soil,

my shoulders the mountain.

The blue above is an opposing force

as I lean into the road, the grass.

My head is the sky.

Transparent to the valley, I breathe

green life. Yet even though

my muscles are made of air,

everything with wings

seems beyond my reach.

After sunset

I change completely,

become a bone—

starlight for marrow.

The moon crosses my mind

once in a while.

Fireflies and bats

keep their distance.

What we are made of defines us:

for me more than most.

Usually I’m a lens—a frame—a container.

But today a dog and three people

passed through my heart.

The dog ran, the people gathered fruit.

They didn’t see me

or know me

or need me

and in those moments

I was free.

Snowdrops

I've been working on this poem for a few years, arranging and rearranging the stanzas, thinking about the fleeting nature of spring and flowers.

The photo I took last Sunday at Smith College. The line to get into their flower show went down the block, so instead of waiting I walked around the grounds and admired the snowdrops and crocuses.

Here's an ode to those tiny white flowers, the first to appear at this time of year.

Galanthus nivalis

It’s been a hard winter. 

As the new season breaks 

open—like always—I kneel 

to see your face unfurl. 

If I believed 

in time, stones and perfection 

I wouldn’t need 

your petals’ curl. But I don’t—

and I do—so 

I seek you out, even though 

my loss of you begins 

as soon as you appear.

Feathers from Home

In Costa Rica, we saw many birds, insects, reptiles, and mammals that were colorful, exciting, and exotic. But there was also something special about seeing species that live in New England for part of the year. This prose poem is about a few of them. The "hourglass" refers to the shape of the Central American isthmus that all migratory species funnel through if they travel between North America and South America. Since I don't have photos of any of these birds, I've included one of the boots that are so helpful for walking along muddy rainforest paths.

Migration

Seen from the air, the “rich coast” is a rough-hewn jewel. On the ground, it is a busy rainbow: thin neck of the American hourglass through which all migratory species must pass. Hello, wood thrush! I saw you last in New Hampshire. Ruby-throat, did you visit me in Hadley last year? Oriole, I have never been to Baltimore, but maybe you’ve perched in Boston? Old friend red-tail, it’s so good to see you. I will look for you in May when I am back and you have also flown home to nest.

Boots at Tirimbina Biological Reserve

Creatures and Wonder

In January, I was lucky to spend 2 weeks in Costa Rica with a biology class from Westfield State University. We visited 4 distinct ecosystems with vastly different flora and fauna, and saw an incredible amount of wildlife thanks to our fabulous guides and the immense biological diversity in Costa Rica.

This is one of a few poems that I wrote during and after the trip. It's in blank verse, my favorite form for narrative. Also, this is the first time that I've included a link in a poem before, but the lizard mentioned is so cool I think you should know about it. All the other creatures you can look up on your own to learn more if you want. Enjoy!

Red Eyes and Pink Eye

After the third day in the rainforest
your eye swells up. You have been touching frogs,
stroking smooth green or speckled backs after
your guide disappeared to the midnight pond,
then returned with a jewel. He showed you the blue
streaked sides, the red webs between tiny toes.
He knows how to hold so they won’t struggle.
That morning he caught butterflies in nets,
held them in his hands, showed you their secrets.
The curled antennae. Front legs that can taste.
The wing where a bird took a beak-shaped bite.
The next day another guide explained birds:
Iridescent hummingbirds’ hide and shine,
woodpeckers tapping trees as a message.
By the pond you heard slap slap slap as the
Jesus Christ lizard ran upright across.
At night she took you to a field, turned off
the flashlights. You saw lightning bugs and stars.
She told you about pheromone ant trails,
owls’ faces shaped like satellite dishes
for better hearing, extra eye membranes.
You went to bed full of caiman eyeshine,
tadpoles, black-and-blue-striped skippers. You woke
eager for papaya, coffee, put in
your artificial eyes without washing.
So after the river float—the howling
monkey monsters guarding trees, iguanas
sunning themselves pleased as rocks, the toucans
flapping red, yellow and black through green leaves—
your beloved eyes ached pink, oozed yellow.
At la pharmacia a young woman
tells you to apply ointment twice a day
and chamomile teabags for swelling.
You are not a creature of the forest:
you’re a creature of grace and gratitude.

Rufus-eyed stream frog