Blue heron at the edge of the
brown flood
The river is full but
you are empty
The choice tastes
swept by storms and the sun
illuminates naught but the air
Snaggy shaggy river birch on the
bank’s brink the beavers
disembarked you
winter’s winds trimmed your twigs
mushrooms have mounted
the flood came and left
and still
you stand
waiting uncertainly
rooted
That spot of rot on the old oak
by the base
near the ground
grinding
breaking the walls
cell by cell
undermining
undercutting
it’s of your body
is it of your spirit and soul, too
Have you despaired of this world
are you corrupted by compromise
is there an ethereal answer
or are age and time
creeping up entropically to
stump you
or is this how we
hollow out our egos to make room
Andy Weatherly lives in the Asheville, NC, USA mountains with his kids and cat. He teaches in prison, dances like a maniac, bakes like a freak, and honors the weather people. Says Andy, “We all live in community all of the time with the wind, rain, plants, microbes, animals, and gods.”
