Being with the Leaves
Have you found poetry?
It happened today.
It was this poem by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer and shared by Paige Ryan that woke me up from my poetry slumber. You must read it now, before you read my words below.
There it was, catapulting me back to my favorite hiking trail in northern California. The glittery foot path after rain, the wild turkeys, the oak trees that I dreamed of as a child, the rolling hills and scents that have no names.
And then:
“I like my body when I’m in the woods…”
Being with the leaves when sunlight pierces through chlorophyll and stomata.
Speaking (without words) with deer in hope that maybe, maybe they hear me and understand.
Watching lichen droop down down, under the spell of gravity, and sway in the breeze from moss-covered trees that look like arms and fingers.
Listening to water in the stream when it tickles the rocks.
Existing and becoming.
“I river. I stone. I leaf. I path.”
A happy falcon feather stuck on a thistle near the trail. Or a small volcano of mud built by some unknown insect below ground. Or to stand below the giant Uncle Oak on top of the hill and feel protected. Protected. It was a fairytale and it was real.
So, the world of poetry has been here all this time, quietly following along, on a parallel path, no, stream, next to me. Patiently waiting, rippling, glittering, splashing water on me now and then. But I veered off some years ago. I must have been distracted. Yes. I must’ve seen something shiny, over there. Perhaps it was classic movies? Perhaps it was writing longer things? Perhaps it was being human?
But today I see them again, my poetry goddesses Karin Boye, Edith Södergran, Wislawa Szymborska and Mary Oliver. They’re waiting for me in the garden, on the beach, and in the forest. They leave little clues for me at the grocery store, on the freeway, and at the doctor’s office. They hope I listen and feel when I pick burrs out of dog paws or wash dirty frying pans after dinner. They carried me a long time ago, when I was brittle and knew not much about life. They told me things no novel can, with words that hold paragraphs and sounds and solar systems.
And now to my new poetry acquaintances:
Paige Ryan and Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer — please go and follow them this moment — a crystal of joy has lodged itself in my throat at the discovery of these two contemporary poetry women. Yes, I think the joy sits there, close to the brain, so it can command me to read more poetry and think more poetry and live more poetry. Reading bits of their work has already brought me a sense of exhilaration and again, joy, because it is as if I have met a long lost friend. Not if. I have met my long lost friend. She is Poetry.
Thanks for reading this far! What poem brings you most joy, and why? Please share in the comments!
First time here? Welcome! Here you can read more about me.
Please follow my Substack — or help me buy a coffee through the QR code below.
