|
Comment on this
article
Black Cottonwood in the Wenatchee River
by Laura L. Snyder
I.
Cottonwood talk the click
of beaver, a chiseled chopped talk.
From much hunger, beaver chip
years of wet words from cottonwood, yet
cottonwood stand seasons
clipping sharp beaver teeth.
II.
Cottonwood grow through
shagging winds. They bear
the craggy face of storm talk, spread
shallow roots wide, raise broods of heron,
osprey and eagle. They display
the end of every part of speech:
beaver talk, river talk, storm
talk, all a part of cottonwood
fiber, lignin, and gold-scented resin.
III.
With it's heartwood beneath me,
the clean-grained flesh
from this fresh fallen giant
stops my pen. It is good
to rest here, absorbing this
cottonness. Underneath my legs,
the funnel of river folds
back upon itself. The tree
spanned it after the sum
of all those talks, and this new damming
shocks the river, vibrates a chord
not sounding from beaver.
The river flaunts a new tongue,
wraps its mouth around
the tough fibered words of cottonwood.
Awarded: July 2006, Washington Wilderness Coalition Writing Contest, Honorable Mention
Return to:
|