THE WORK OF THE POET IS TO NAME WHAT'S HOLY

 

National Observer - Will O'Connell photo

The work of the poet is to name what's holy:
Fairy Creek, ancient, mystical,
habitat for the non-human realm,
lungs of the planet.
The holy work of saving old growth trees,
the last of their kind, from being clearcut.
Wolves, their howls at midnight
as they search for a safe place to hide
come morning.
The neighbour's dog,
whose light-blue eyes - spooky, half-wild -
his toothy grin, smile at me.
His huge and perky ears.

The work of the poet is to
write it all down; capture the moments
tinged with the shine of memory,
and those with the immediacy of right now:
this moment of the pandemic
when the race is between the variants
and the vaccine, when people are tired,
and we seem to be losing the race.

So here I am, on a grey rainy day,
tapping away at the keys. By now,
I have worn the letters off some of them.
The hills are wrapped in clouds,
like a shawl over a grandma's shoulders
on a chilly afternoon.
My fireplace is on, cheering me.
Old tunes full of memories
spin, taking me back,
serenading me here.

Life is moving
but I am staying still, 
listening within. Waiting,
with tears in my heart, 
as the last of the Standing People
fall. 

Inspired by "The Work of the Poet is to Name What's Holy" by Diane Ackerman. Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner. This week the courts ruled in favor of the logging company. The tree defenders trying to save Fairy Creek will now begin to be arrested. The corporate criminals backed by law; those trying to save the planet being charged and held. It makes no sense. The photo above is on the chopping block. On Vancouver Island, there is less than three percent of old growth left.