Montauk Lighthouse
On the summer solstice I was playing hooky on Montauk Point, Long Island, New York. Thanks to the remnants of tropical storm Bill, the morning of June 21st brought thunderstorms and overcast skies. But June 22nd was a very different story.
Fawn, in the future
no doubt, I’ll curse you, for now
eat the sweet mulberries
Crow, why did you have to strut across the road, swaggering your tail feathers at me, one beady eye twitching?
I only meant to ruffle your skirts, take some of the smug off your bold face—call your bluff
but I was impatient, eager to get home, and didn’t see the scree of gravel on the road
for a blustering fellow, you made such a small thump and crunch under the wheels of the car
I winced, smiled reassuringly at the child in the rear view mirror, his face turned out the window looking for damage
inside, the sinking feeling, the consequence of misplaced emotions embedding in my gut
ever since that moment the bone china jumps out of my hands, slippery as wet soap, and spangles the kitchen floor with a cymbal of sound
milkjugs of seafoam green and eggcups by the dozen—tiny smithereens the lot of them
I want to blame you crow for putting the evil eye on me, make you carry the burden of my guilt
but how ridiculous is that. This morning it was the teapot—my grandmother’s—and I vowed it was the last shard
to unwind a spell you must pick at the knots, teasing with your fingers, like unraveling an old sweater
each knot an undoing, paying back the threads, unlearning you crow and asking forgiveness.
Dawn watchers exhale
steamy breath as lick
of sunlight passes
through a small opening
creeps down
a stone passage on
winter’s equinox bathes
in solstice light
the tomb that echoes
with faith and ritual
Five thousand years
the stones have held
the secrets of unknown
builders to capture
the wild stallion of the sun
unfettered marker of
the season when
to draw forth the plow
when to sow and reap
and how to hope
Homage paid with
stone hammer flint
picking swirling impressions into
rock tributes placed
offerings of bead and bone
in crevices carved
granite basins to hold
charred remains of
those that had the gift to see
the future bring prosperity
To connect living to dead
life to death light to darkness
sacrifice frost on
early morning grass shivering
attendants brown cow bellowing
in acknowledgement of
steam rising off hot blood in
cold winter sun to heat
the earth and draw
the soul of a new year forward.
“Newgrange Eingang Stein” by I, Clemensfranz. Licensed under CC BY 2.5 via Wikimedia Commons – http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Newgrange_Eingang_Stein.jpg#/media/File:Newgrange_Eingang_Stein.jpg
The first time she ate snow
She was forty-nine
Burrs in her heavy dark hair
Dusty as a horse’s hide
But beautiful
She strode out onto the plain
Crushing rock and exoskeletons
Beneath her boots
Her sights set firmly
On the lights in the northern sky
Her wild child curled within her bone cage
—a glowing coal—
Sleeping carelessly
Ready to spring up from the purple cushion
And sway to the beat
She relished the roll
Of whiskey on her tongue
That strut—blowing dust off her pool cue
To the jukebox
Thumbing through a lifetime of songs
When snow blotted out her vision
She ate her way through the blizzard
One faceted flake at a time
Drawing sustenance
For the journey
She picked her way along the seashore
Weighing her pockets with
Salt-encrusted stones
Footprints erased by the galloping tide
She knew the way home
Pressed her fingers to the glass
Feeling the sharpness of cold rain
The wind called at each corner
Of that solitary house
Wearing them smooth
The sweet curve of the bay
Cradled her gaze
Buoying up the storm clouds
And those sunsets to die for
Strut and retreat.
The man stands pondering
His next move
Turning the dull clunker
Over and over in his hands
Feeling for the bone of it
The marrow at its core
Over and over in his hands
He turns the stone
Listening for the dry chalky sound
Of rough against rough
He holds an eon of coiled energy
Latent In his hands, over and over
His feet draw up
The potent heat of the day from the rocks
Words form in his mouth—
Manipulation, transformation, reverence
Small pebbles of evidence
Are sculpted by his hands, over and over.
Recently I had the privilege of watching Scott Woolsey, an artist who lives in New York’s Catskill region, build a stone cairn on the banks of the Neversink River.
Color has thrust itself on the landscape
In quick short jabs—hyacinth blue, daffodil yellow, robin red
If I had a net I could reel in the clouds like a flock of white doves
The mantra begins—mint oregano raspberry sage
Sitting amongst dandelions
I dream of wine, mellow and ripe
The sweetness of honey on my tongue
And an orange tree grown from seed.
I feel the upward thrust through the soles of my feet
First rhubarb nubbins pushing out of the dirt
First purple violets in the lawn
First handsome dandelion by the garden door.
The old cat knows it
She’s been prancing up the black walnut like a skittish kitten
Squirming luxuriously in the new grass
Rubbing her chin against some smell that I can’t even get a whiff of.
The calm air is painted with birdsong
Sun dries the ink on the page
The tug of war between Sun and Moon
Pulls the slow earth from winter to spring.
A wind came in the window.
Like a small feral creature,
It took a turn around the room,
Tossing birthday cards upon the floor,
Chasing stale air out of corners,
Whisking dust bunnies off the stairs.
In its wake it left an invisible trail
Of greenery and fresh earth,
Buffeting me from my lethargy.
How could I not step outside and join
Such a boisterous playmate?
The Magpie by Claude Monet, 1869
Your birth, I remember it well,
Born on the cusp of spring,
The essence of it stamped on my memory:
Unexpected April heat, my heavy, restless body pushing through thick air
Walking the loop—up the hill, down by the graveyard, alongside the woods,
Anticipation mounting with each contraction,
Rattling my teeth with nervous energy.
And all around, a building storm,
Earth barely containing the rising tide of sap,
A river of new life surging along branch tips, swelling the buds.
Third child and well attended, I had the rhythm of things down,
The cyclical understanding that roots into the fabric.
An understanding of the flow of things,
The current that would drive me along.
The midwife could see that and left me to labor in peace.
Peace in pain, a strange eye of the storm,
When you push the walls away from you,
Allowing the breath to come; release.
The walls of the room dissolved,
The energy of the womb focused
On that postcard-sized snow-settled landscape,
The magpie seated on the farmyard gate,
Illuminated by soft winter sunlight,
Patiently waiting for spring.
And when I stepped out into the world again
Carrying you, my new born, in a soft swaddling of blankets,
The pear trees were wreathed in white blossom.
Each season
You weathered
Porcupines
Who ate
Your roof
Beetles
That chewed
Your boards
Mice
That birthed
A hundred nibblers
Inside your walls
Worms
Who digested
Your sawdust
The storm
That brought
A javelin of
Black cherry
Through your roof
My neglect
Your resignation.
Melissa Shaw-Smith 
