Beachcombing
Driftwood symphony. Player
inconspicuous. Praying,
at last,
to love the sea after
tasting the black bear’s
remnant salmon rot. Marking
masking — rocking
in the evening
tide suck.
Who
among us has stayed
in root or
in look?
What
distant shore has shipped this
message on
the back of being?
Story beginning,
a totem or family tree.
Roughly between
always been
could be.
A little mystery emerged this week at Lincoln Park. A log, with one end in the water, bobbed steadily (normal). After paying closer attention I noticed a carving in the tree. We had never seen it before, meaning we had missed it for months or it had just joined the driftwood brigade that lines the beach. I returned the next day to get a picture and, just after taking it, a fish jumped out of the water to greet the sky.
A few years ago, I read (maybe in Finding the Mother Tree by Suzanne Simard) that many nutrients from the sea found their way deep into the forest via bears. They would catch salmon and carry them to the foot of a great tree to feast. These nutrients are observable in the tree rings, which can be used to observe years rich and poor in salmon.
Within this poem, that is the memory of the tree. Somewhere between a poem of longing and evolution.
Thanks for reading.