by Laura Parker Roerden
I wrote a poem:
it’s hard to say what it is.
It’s small
like a bird,
but it has wings
that open, wide enough
to receive
the shadow from
starlight
where monsters
writhe and
inform us
of who we are
through ancient
story and song
or simply the daily news.
I put the poem
in a simple box
and buried it;
marked it
with a large
rock.
Then I grieved.
Knowing it was now
impossible to believe
in something as tender,
—as unbelievable—
as hope.
Yet time can
change
such a thing.
In frost
it heaved,
and grew
jagged and uneven,
an open maw
like a wound.
Still something settled
by summer
when longer
light
kissed it
greedily,
consumed
it, like food
for hope
until
the stone
was
no
longer,
but had become
a generous bed
for a seed
dropped
from the heavens,
watered by faith.
A single stalk of evening
primrose grew,
like a bolt of light,
strong enough
to hold an oriole
or finch seeking
nourishment.
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Laura Parker Roerden is the founding director of Ocean Matters and the former managing editor of Educators for Social Responsibility and New Designs for Youth Development. She serves on the board of Earth, Ltd. and is a member of the Pleiades Network of Women in Sustainability. She lives on her fifth generation family farm in MA.