.
[with 3 poems by Beth Copeland]
.
Fog
.
Morning fog erases the mountain and trees.
No, not an erasure but unseen.
.
Not an erasure but unseen.
The mountain, the laurel still green.
.
Unlike the mountain and laurel still green,
the dearly departed lie beneath white sheets.
.
The deer depart beneath white sheets
of fog, stepping into a forgotten dream
.
of fog slipping into a forgotten dream
the ghost mountain dreams.
.
The ghost mountain dreams.
Crows fly to pines on mascara wings.
.
Crows fly to pines on mascara wings,
mourning. Fog erases the mountain, the trees.
.
Beth Copeland
from I Ask the Mountain to Heal My Heart, Redhawk Publications, The Catawba Valley Community College Press, Hickory NC; © 2025
.
❦ ❦ ❦
.
It’s a big web, here in the corner of our screened porch, but I’m not ready yet to broom it down. The spider is a jointed dried kernel in its center; when I blow, she doesn’t twitch. I don’t see an egg pouch or spiderlings. The strands are not an orb but a diffuse tangle, a chaos of delicate angles and tensions — a miniature of filaments revealed by the background microwave radiation that weave the structure of our entire universe. And what are they made of, those filaments? These I can see before me are nanometer reworkings of hemolymph from mosquitoes denied the opportunity to bite me. Most visible when dusted with pollen. A mess. But I and my broom are not ready yet to offend, to say farewell to the tribe of spiders.
.
Last week we visited Blue Whales with our grandson, turning eight. The North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences in Raleigh is hosting this exhibit of the largest creatures that have ever lived on our planet – the mystery of their migrations, language, culture; the vital interconnections between their diet of krill, their massive enriching orange poop, and the entire deep ocean ecology. Linda and I stood in silence before the model of a blue whale brain and a model of our own. The whale’s is twice as large and twice as complex, convoluted with its twisting gyri and deep sulci. Surely such an abundance of neurons and synapses must create thoughts as complex as our own. Or more so. And yet blue whales struggle to survive as a species in a world degraded by human beings. I am thinking of that brain and I am not ready yet to say farewell to the tribe of whales.
.
Chapel Hill cartoonist Keith Knight draws a weekly panel titled (th)ink. Today’s is a portrait of and quotation by James Baldwin (1924-1987): “To be a Negro in this country & to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time.” Human being who is relatively conscious, choose your own rage focal point du jour – human beings caged like animals in a Florida concentration camp; children intentionally starved to advance a particular political agenda; boosting fossil fuels burned to appease a few billionaires; an ocean filled with plastic nanoparticles and deafening human vibrations where blue whales may soon be extinct? Some days I feel like I am not ready to go on living. Some days I am more than ready to say goodbye to the tribe of humans. In a few years I will depart as an inhabitant of planet Earth. Some years after that the last memory of my having been an inhabitant will finally depart as well. On that day, will any whales still remain to swim the depths? Will any love between humans remain, or any love for other creatures? I am not ready yet to answer.
.
.
❦ ❦ ❦
.
October Valentine
.
A heart-shaped leaf spied in the weeds on my walk
down the hill to the mailbox. I didn’t see a redbud tree
.
on the roadside, so it must have lifted on the wind
and dropped – a gift! – near my feet. Is it a message
.
from someone I love – my sweet mother in a halo of light,
my father singing the names of trees in his strong baritone?
.
Or is it from someone I’ve never seen and may never meet?
.
As I hike up the hill, I tuck the leaf in my pocket, rubbing it
with my thumb – as if I could read it – skin to skin – by osmosis.
.
Halfway home, I stop to study it. Cerise with splotches of green,
dark spots, a wormhole bored like a bullet wound, a battered
.
heart, like yours, like mine, but maybe its scars make it more
beautiful than before. My friends, there’s still so much
.
love in this world even when you’re alone.
.
Beth Copeland
from I Ask the Mountain to Heal My Heart, Redhawk Publications, The Catawba Valley Community College Press, Hickory NC; © 2025
.
❦ ❦ ❦
.
Is it strange for me to be toying with despair while reading a book of healing and love like Beth Copeland’s I Ask the Mountain to Heal My Heart? Actually, if you’re not toying with despair you are the strange one. Give grudging thanks, though. Thank the stars and the mysterious hemlocks and the dark fecund earth that in a world full of rage and despair there are poems like Beth Copeland’s. These poems know the feeling of being lost in endless night. These poems have been battered, they have fallen, they have doubted plenty of times whether there is any wholeness or healing available to them, but these poems stand up to testify, My friends, there’s still so much love in this world even when you’re alone.
.
Often I tell myself it is ridiculous to imagine that any sort of inner peace is possible. I have my share of personal regrets and ongoing grief, and even though I’m tempted to look around and envy those people who don’t, when I’m really honest I admit that no one escapes whipping. But peace can’t be a wall built around my sadness – walls keep more things in than out. Despair is inevitable. How foolish is it, then, and how strange, to spend a few hours with a book of words arranged in lines on paper and discover the tightness in my throat is easing? The mountain has rested in one place for 480 million; today its peak is less than a third of its height when it was first thrust up in the big crunch. Does it reflect on loss and diminishment, or does it find peace in the weight of its daily being? Am I inflamed and scarred by the revelations of Beth Copeland’s battles and pain, or am I grateful for her gratitude and strengthened by her strength?
.
The tribe of human beings seems determined to destroy itself. The tribe of human beings seems determined to link arms and hearts in love. Perhaps discovering a moment of beauty is not a cowardly attempt to escape dire reality – perhaps it is the only thing capable of healing us.
.
❦
.
Explore REDHAWK Publications, including Beth Copeland’s I Ask the Mountain to Heal My Heart and Shibori Blue: Thirty-Six Views of the Peak HERE.
.
Sample poems from Shibori Blue at Verse & Image HERE.
.
More information about the North Carolina Museum of Nature Sciences HERE.
Dive into the K Chronicles with Keith Knight HERE.
.
.
❦ ❦ ❦
.
My Daughter Paints a Mountain
.
She wasn’t thinking as her brush swept
across canvas in wave-length strokes,
.
channeling a crest she’d never seen,
while I was still in the Sandhills
.
where there aren’t any hills, just fields
of cotton, soybeans, and cedar stumps
.
in swamp water, sleeping on an air mattress
in a small apartment with prints and paintings
propped against walls instead of hung,
newly separated, newly sober, living
.
between the husband and home I’d left
and a haven I hadn’t found yet.
.
*****
.
As I drove up a steep road to see a house
in the Blue Ridge, a large buck leapt
.
in front of the car to welcome me,
and I knew I’d found my new home.
.
I didn’t know the mountain seen at the top
of the hill was the mountain she’d painted
.
months before, and she didn’t know I’d move
to that house with a view of the mountain
.
she’d painted as if in a dream or fugue.
How could her mountain – purple, lavender,
.
pink, and forest green swirled to a peak
with white streak of snow against a blue sky –
.
mirror the one framed in my window?
Was it coincidence or synchronicity
.
that the mountain in her mind’s
eye was more map than metaphor?
.
It was a message from the universe:
You’re home. Open the door.
.
Beth Copeland
from I Ask the Mountain to Heal My Heart, Redhawk Publications, The Catawba Valley Community College Press, Hickory NC; © 2025
.
.
❦ ❦ ❦
.
.
❦ ❦ ❦
.
V E R S E and I M A G E 
"The language of the wild...." Fiercely beautiful work.