OK, that was a little out of my range.
The next poem is a poem that I got the title
from Kaveh Akbar, who gave a talk,
and it was called poetry and spirituality.
And it was a stunning talk.
And it's available at the Academy of American Poets.
But there was a phrase in there that he
used, postures of devotion.
And that just resonated with me.
And I'm from Northwestern Minnesota.
I spend part of each year in a water access cabin
adjacent to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness.
And much of this poem is situated from that area.
"Postures of Devotion.
Before me Kawishiwi stretches--
River a palette of frost.
Nearby glazed berries dot the cranberry bushes,
Melt into mirage.
Icicles too drip remembrance.
But metaphors of a world asleep
Fail this place,
Where even now affiliated woodpecker
beats a rhythm of search--
Repeats day by day, deeper.
Watch while the leafless oak opens.
Beneath the protective skin of tree
More hard shelled beings--
Bark beetles, exoskeletons of ants.
Hear the purr of wings landing,
Jarring rattle as head recites hunger.
Watch the red blur of devotion--
Manic as our soul, our alone.
Yet steadily each body maps resilience
Where survival turns with planet,
Chases the sun,
Wait is a courage we name winter.
Beneath ice, mink, muskrat, and otter swim,
Stalk sleek shadows of fish.
Woodland dwellers find feast each season.
Oh despair, make that your gospel.
Still forest grandmothers, all roots, trunks, and limbs,
Uphold their pact
In rhythm of warm days and freezing nights.
Tree roots suction,
Sap spills through bark wounds.
Then our tongues, sticky with spring.
Then our song.
But in January,
We hold this promise:
While lake eyes shifts, dark a murmur, a creak.
Now moonlight falls on snow crests--
Always where two touch.
Night glistens.
When distant wolf howls,
Answer comes.
Imagine the upturned muzzle,
Body a triangle of sound.
Hazel eyes, mere slits.
This reverence-- an ancient hunger for pack.
See, too, each black branch-- limbing, bare,
suspended in soon.
How pristine the listening posture
of pine marten, of fisher, of fox.
Each body cocked to pounce,
To dive nose first into snow's secrets,
To search winter tunnels for mice.
We too, poised like supplicants--
Rawness of the world a prayer we read,
But cannot speak.
Silence and invocation,
Heavy as tobacco, sinking into snow-- into earth's altar.
Against moon's brilliance slit your eyes.
Let warmth of reflected light fill you,
That holy, that glance of tiny gods.
Make of your hands an empty globe,
Your body a vessel taut as river."
[APPLAUSE]