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[ with 4 poems by Lori Powell]
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Wings
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Not one bird but two,
black bead eyes staring,
feet curled into question marks.
No one but two
as if they’d made the trip together,
flying deluded to batter the glass
they believed was air, trees, clouds –
a whole landscape of death.
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“There is the trash can,” I say
rolling the bodies
onto the white paper sack.
But my son insists on burial
there, in the parking lot
we push the red clay over them,
under a scrawny tree, itself barely alive.
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Are you disillusioned now
small birds, wiser
in red clay than thin air?
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I have my own
pact with illusion
a daily flight into the glass
my own small birds
stunned, not yet dead,
battering the spot
that might yield.
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I will not bury you small birds,
my one chance at wings.
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Lori Powell
from Truth and Lies, Black Buzzard Press, © 2000
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February 24, first naturalist hike of the season. I begin by telling everyone to look close, real, real close – any flowers we find blooming are likely to be tiny. (Although before we embark on the trail we stand for a minute beneath the huge Acer rubrum near the recreation center, a jillion brilliant flowers over our heads.) The pussytoes and star chickweed won’t be visible for another week or two, but we do discover one Virginia heartleaf with little purple buds just opening their mouths. And then there’s hepatica and trout lily.
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Depending on which woods you walk in, one of these two is likely to be the first native flower to bloom. How do they know when it’s time? Those trees towering over them, bathed in lengthening daylight, can use the calendar to decide when to leaf out (although North American trees are surprisingly sensitive to soil temperature as well). What triggers the tiny plants of the understory to flower?
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It’s a critical question because of one critical concept: spring light window. Wildflowers of temperate forests need to do most or even all of their growing before tree leafbuds burst and the canopy closes. We can see this on our walk today in the local orchid species – they make new leaves in late fall, dark green to absorb weak winter sunlight beneath bare trees, and by the time they bloom in summer their leaves will be gone. Hepatica keeps its old purpled leaves all winter, perhaps for the same reason, and will make new green after flowers fade. But fresh trout lily leaves appear only days before the yellow blossoms spring up.
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Here are my observations: a little clump of hepatica may bloom here and there beginning in December if we have a string of warm days. Trout lily,though, is synchronized – see one leaf and you know within days you will see it everywhere, all blooming at once. Hepatica must be more sensitive to soil temperature and trout lily less so, needing a full spring warming to trigger. Or could trout lily even somehow sense daylight beneath those layers of brown leaves?
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Phenology is the term for this study of cyclical biological phenomena: flowering, leaves, migration, nesting, insect hatching . . . . As the climate changes, “phenological mismatch” is dire – flowers may open when no pollinators are available. And if spring warming causes trees to leaf out earlier but trout lily can’t adapt, that critical spring light window may dim too soon for the little mottled fish-scale leaves to store enough root energy for next spring.
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See this article in NATURE for a deeper discussion of forest and wildflower phenology; comparison of North America, Europe, and Asia; and exploration of terms like FFD (first flower date), LOD (leaf out date), Spring Light Window, and Phenological Escape.
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Without Teeth
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Instead of striding fearless out of the sea
you’ve become the soft creature inside the shell.
The thing you wish you’d said
shouts in your ear all night long
then lies down
with the thing you wish you hadn’t done
and begets children.
Still you believe in hours without teeth,
hours when you can say,
“That’s not my blood seeping into the sand.”
Hope is ground from your bones.
Hope is the shell that winds you
tighter inside its coils.
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The Origin of Snow
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When I see a black dog in the snow
I stop wondering if you love me.
All the world’s wet places
have brimmed into flower at once,
as if difficult things
could happen this simply
dog in snow, black on white,
and my thoughts come home
like children with wet feet,
leaving puddles everywhere.
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Lori Powell
from Truth and Lies, Black Buzzard Press, © 2000
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How tall is that stack of unread books beside your bed, on the corner of your desk? Has your homeowner’s insurance raised your premium because of the chance of it tipping over onto your head? Has your home’s foundation shifted from the weight? At great personal risk, I’ve snaked a book from a lower stratum in one of my piles before its carbon could be crystallized to diamond. And discovered it’s layered with gems.
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Lori Powell lives on the coast of Maine, where she teaches English to immigrants and refugees. Her first poetry collection, Truth and Lies (Black Buzzard Press, Visions International) confirms Jean Cocteau: “The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.” These poems are condensed, crystallized, sharp enough to cut. The poet’s images, at first elusive, gradually blossom and bloom the longer I contemplate. And then, mirabile dictu, the truth on the page no longer belongs to the writer but belongs to me. A window opens and light enters.
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Truth and Lies is Volume 14 of the Black Buzzard Press Illustrated Chapbook Series, illustrations by Cathie France Nelson. Visit the Press and Visions International HERE.
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Like a Well of Sweet Water
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That is your mailbox,
your name in black.
I want to leave you something
like a cat leaves her kill
at her master’s door.
I want to be useful
like a throat filled with song,
like a well of sweet water.
I am both cat and bird.
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But what can I give?
My pockets are orphans,
my words have flown,
my head is filled
with useless music.
I would leave you something,
but not today.
The cat’s in the well
and the bird sings, sings.
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Lori Powell
from Truth and Lies, Black Buzzard Press, © 2000
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These are intriguing poems. I hope to read more of Lori’s work.
Thx for posting them.
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Thanks, Sam! Lori may have a new chapbook in 2024 — I’ll let y’all know. —B
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