—after Kaveh Akbar’s “Poetry and Spirituality”
Before me Kawishiwi stretches—
river a palette of frost. Nearby
glazed berries dot the cranberry bushes,
melt into mirage. Icicles
too drip remembrance.
But metaphors of a world asleep
fail this place where even now
a pileated woodpecker beats a rhythm
of search—repeats, day by day deeper.
Watch while the leafless oak opens.
Beneath the protective skin
of tree, more hard-shelled beings—
bark beetles, exoskeletons of ants.
Hear the purr of wings landing,
jarring rattle as head recites hunger.
Watch the red blur of devotion—
manic as our soul, our alone.
Yet steadily each body maps resilience.
Where survival turns with planet,
chases the sun, wait is a courage
we name winter. Beneath ice
mink, muskrat, and otter swim,
stalk sleek shadows of fish.
Woodland dwellers find feast each season—
oh despair, make that your gospel.
Still, forest grandmothers—all roots
trunks and limbs—uphold their pact.
In rhythm of warm days and freezing
nights, tree roots suction, sap spills
through bark wounds. Then our tongues
sticky with spring—then, our song.
But, in January, we hold this promise.
While lake ice shifts, dark a murmur,
a creak. Now moonlight falls on snow crusts—
always where two touch, night glistens.
When distant wolf howls, answer comes.
Imagine the upturned muzzle, body
a triangle of sound. Hazel eyes
mere slits. This reverence—an ancient hunger
for pack. See, too, each black branch
limbing—bare, suspended in soon.
How pristine the listening posture
of pine marten, of fisher, of fox—
each body cocked. To pounce, to dive
nose-first into snow’s secrets,
to search winter tunnels for mice.
We, too, poised like supplicants—
rawness of the world a prayer
we read but cannot speak. Silence
an invocation, heavy as tobacco
sinking into snow—into earth’s altar.
Against moon’s brilliance, slit your eyes.
Let warmth of reflected light fill you;
that holy—that glance of tiny gods.
Make of your hands an empty globe,
your body a vessel taut as river.
