Dryad; Awakening Shagbark HickoryForever non-finito, glimpsedat best in a supple torsothat seems, out of the corner ofmy eye, to shimmy in the wind,in the sun, in the moonlight. But of course,as soon as I turn toward the tree trunkto confirm such, there is nothingbut a morbid stillness. Its flaringbark seems always about to beshed. At
Stick Tree Black Swamp DryadFrom such I am made. My localturf a black swamp atopa geological midden,braced by moraines and beach ridges,where ground down things gatheredto grind each other, pulverizingthe lot into clay paste.Here the last ice apocalypsecollapsed into a river,thawing what had been tundra,the melt slicing through the till,silt, and clast bits trapped in
Dryad, End of Season Self-indentured, trapped in a schemeof my own devising, I am bothmeans of production and product.Shackled to this earth’s factory floor,I should be resigned, yet I twistand writhe as others have, convincedthat I can break free of myself,that a summer spent getting sunand water, in mining the soil’s riches,might yield something other
At the Field’s Edge Dryad: SentinelI doze at the frontier of my life.It takes a lack of wind to wake mefrom the dream of myself. Fog keepsclosing in, wrapping me in everthicker layers. I have stood hereso long that I have sunk ankle deepinto the earth. I can no longerwiggle my toes. My fingertips markthe
