their young eyes learn to see hidden birds and beasts under shrubs on still logs to soak in sun hear their gleeful cry his young hands pinch the greening leaves crinkled nose wary breath whiff of cucumber and mint welcomes sudden smile her young ears strain to hear the song subtle notes dance on wind a beguiling pied piper hidden from her sight This is a trial run with a Spanish poetry form known as a shadorma, which is a six-line syllabic poem of 3/5/3/3/7/5 syllable lines. Multiple shadorma can be linked together. This experiment is my attempt to capture what I saw shadowing Eye on Nature volunteers at the Billy Frank Jr. Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge. Introducing and encouraging youthful love of nature is a great thing; watching these young people respond to the experience was inspiring.
Tag: shadorma
Week Two on Review
Day 10: Woolie Socks
Day 8: First Thing This Morning
You called first thing this morning,
No greeting beyond, “God, mom, you sound like shit!”
Your head wrapped up where 20-somethings’s sit.
I pondered the apple, and its distance from the tree —
Set aside the measuring tape, considering
The long years and paths that lay ahead.
Perhaps, just perhaps, we could walk together again?
I suppose I should answer for this odd division
Of concern for your friends, for yourself, but no other.
On the one hand, I admire your careless compassion.
On the other, I find your heedlessness quite tiring.
A curious mixture you bring to life’s field,
Of independence and boldness, of an uncertain child.
You called first thing this morning.
It’s a long-standing habit, this idea of yours
That parents’ hand over scant money, scant time.
I could point my finger at other devotee’s
Of giving in to the whim, to the moment, to the plea . . .
How many fingers would then point back at me?
So, no wonderment is allowed — that when you called there was
No greeting beyond, “God, mom, you sound like shit.”
“No money, no time” deepened the pause
You struggled and mastered the terrible frustration:
“I need to get home,” you said, “my friend is having a
hard time, I can help him, I should, he needs me . . .”
I bit my tongue on the burble of harsh judgment.
Tasting metallic coppery fluid, breathing deeply, knowing that
Your head’s wrapped up where 20-something’s sit.
Just a phase, a space, a piece of time
That reflects honestly your own curious mix
Of life’s lessons learned and choices long made.
Small lumps of clay held in cupped hands long ago
Patted, petted, cuddled and loved
Paddled, scolded, molded – now gone. Silently,
I pondered the apple, and its distance from the tree.
So much hope, so much grace, the promise you bring
To a world in need, to a world that laughs, a world that cries
To a world more often known for its wars, its battlements
Stark and forlorn.
You reject that vision, and like the babe of old
Keep reaching up and out, to have and to hold.
I set aside the measuring tape, considering
That in two long decades
You survived and thrived where many would not.
Vulnerability and strength go hand in hand
Not usually an even mix
But there nonetheless
As you forge your own trails into
Long years and paths that lay ahead.
And they are long, and sometimes weary
The years and paths ahead
When a mother’s mind is stuck in perpetual rewind.
“Do-over, do-over!” wee gremlins shriek
“No good, no good!” they poke and prod . . .
The unkind voices give substance to a dream —
Perhaps, just perhaps, we could walk together again?