It's in our Nature
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The Poems
Will Vuyk
Spirit Seeking
By Will Vuyk In this haunting time of winter, the wind howls for all to hear it but where are the spirits? of summer and fall, when from leaves and vivid water all manner of souls did crawl and call, and buzz on small beating wings The wind has left with those leaves, left with the heat that stirred the water, left with the wings of our fleeting spirits yet here it still breathes through the trees bare and barely moved, between rustling stalks past the web of a lone dream catcher, a thin line it has to walk. Winter-hardened, this spider is one of few for neither midges nor mayflies dance under the midwinter moon Even the mammals are elusive, as they tip-toe stories through the snow While flocking birds, in tune with time, fly far off upon its flow Under ice the frogs lay frozen, their friends the toads lie deep in silt, Chasing across this absence, wind tears down all we’ve built Yet on spins the spider, desperate, hopeful, dreaming, Memories of summer spirits flashing snowflakes lashing the wind unrelenting in its dashing of seven straining legs, stuck year-round in season’s fate despite it all, holding a cup-half full makes eight. The spirit-hunting spider weaves its web ever wider knowing that time too is turning birds will be returning mammals out from sleeping, frogs a leaping, crickets cheeping, mosquitos sneaking small, itchy stings There is serenity in the snow, and beauty in the bleak Between the bare trees and rustling stalks, the windswept earth reveals all that we seek Haunted by absence, it is presence that we hold oh so dear, making the spirits of summer all the more special when they reappear 
Doris Dubielzig
Apologies
by Doris Dubielzig, February 2021 Pardon me. I’ve been Preoccupied lately with demands both external and internal; Indifferent and inattentive to seasonal progress; Disinterested in reality and distracted by technology; Deaf and blind to the biota That flies above, crawls around and burrows beneath me. That is to say, “I’ve been busy.” Forgive me. I have neglected to Appreciate the sunrise and the rise of spring sporangia; To catch the Northern lights and the lightning bugs; To distinguish the warbler’s song from the wren’s. I have skimmed without learning, Skipped without thinking, Squinted while blinking Away tears of indulgence. Excuse me. I’m ignorant of The history of the bitter, broken promises, The mystery of these mounds, The legacy of the ancient travelers Who set up camp 12,000 years Before the present, who Captured prey in the woods and in the bay, Lit fire to the prairie and the marsh. Permit me. I will commit to Respect pioneers both plant and animal, Study the clouds and the thrushes Encourage the reeds and the rushes, Recall the roles of water and wind, Return to this central point, and Here I’ll help to repair, restore and Attend to this special, precious Preserve. 
By Paul Noeldner
AUDIO COMING SOON Nature Magnets I paint you a picture of poplar poles Milky tan trunks, dark green between Fluttering tops and bark spotted eyes Lining the woodland along the roadsides Meadow patched quilt Rough fencepost hem Home for the wild critter and child Beyond, hidden crows call Bright streambed rocks Berry sweet thickets Natures magnets This poem is inspired by the magic of survival of life frozen over winter... Fireflies in Winter Fireflies in winter n the seasons twinkling lights Glow sparkling embers of life's summer blaze Nestled hearts beat through long icebound nights Again in spring from bent brown grass and budding birch arise This poem is in honor of the humble milkweed and all the living things that our native plants support... A Milkweeds Tale Springs Soft Milk Sucking Stem Feeds Summers Monarch of the Glen Falls Wrapped in Grizzled Cloak Winters Wind Blows Snow White Smoke Weaving Fresh New Babys Bowers This poem is in honor of the hundreds of Tundra Swans that visit our beautiful bays each Spring and Fall... Can Your Hear Tundras Honking Can you hear the Tundras honking As they end their wild ride Call out to their wing mates And touch down soft to glide On mirrors of quiet waters To weave a graceful dance Until with full moon rising Burst skyward from their trance |
Robin Chapman
Rhubarb
by Robin Chapman Red fists punch through a crust of snow, red knuckles veined with green, raised against a sky threatening more cold and hail-- leaf after leaf will unfurl its rugged shoulders, shrug off its crystals of ice, climb into gray light on those fat red stems we learned to chop and boil in sweet syrup when nothing else was green but its toxic leaves—those crisp astringent pieces of rhubarb stalk that bring us the first sharp taste of spring. The Chimney Swifts of Madison
by Robin Chapman August and September evenings they gather, after fledglings have grown and gone, after eating their daily weight in insects, before they fly to South America for winter months— begin to circle the old school's chimney stack. High up, twittering, they call in each other from across our city, last mosquitoes and early moths snatched up as they turn and turn over the stack, the parking lot, our small selves perched on rocks or standing there, tripods set up to catch the sunset, the circle of smoke that they become as light departs and they spiral down, the stragglers joining in to drop, one by one by many one, out of sight, into the dark lined with bodies clinging to rough cement and we find our hearts, caught in pandemic fear, lifted, enfolded, brought home to rest in the kindred dark. Originally appeared on James Crews’ Facebook Page and reprinted in Quill and Parchment, March 2021, Vol. 237 
Nancy Austin
Originally appeared in Remnants of Warmth (Kelsay Books, 2019) and to be reprinted in Something Novel Came in Spring (Water’s Edge Press, 2021).
Clara Landucci
Listen
By Clara Landucci Kneel Place your ear upon the earth listen- do you hear it? A thousand clamoring whispers sound Listen closer The trees speak It is a tongue we have not yet earned the right to know But it is music all the same Beneath the shell of the earth there lies A spider’s web of fungi A gossamer map of connections Criss crossing swirling diving- swooping in around over and through the rich soil from tree- to tree to tree A web of fine spun song A silently clamoring chorus of voices The trees- speak They say- See us. Listen to us. Do you hear us? We are not yet lost 
Marjorie Rhine
“Finding My Path”
—Marjorie E. Rhine My daughter Mathilda strides ahead of me, her dark-brown hair falling in messy waves over the back of her owl-adorned t-shirt, an appealing rock already snuggling in a pocket of her boy’s khaki shorts. This beautiful June day is her eleventh birthday, and as part of our celebration we are walking together out onto Picnic Point, a peninsula about a mile long that curls out from the south shore of Lake Mendota like a little elephant’s trunk reaching toward the northeast. Tiny toads leap about our feet at the edge of the path, and Mathilda bends low, cupping her hands to catch one. We crouch together, cooing over this miniature marvel. These chocolate-dappled American toads are only as big as my thumbnail now, newly metamorphosed from their tadpole selves. In late Spring, I watched two toad parents hug half-submerged as if wrestling, a coupling called amplexus, from the Latin word that means to embrace. The smaller male clasps tightly to the female’s back, ready to fertilize her two long strands of eggs as they spill out into the water in wispy, translucent strings dotted with dark-brown beads, drifting down to curl around some reedy plants in the water. Standing to stretch, I focus for a moment on the high-pitched trills of red-bellied woodpeckers as they poke around for insects in the bark of the trees above us, lifting my face and closing my eyes in pleasure as the June sun warms my skin. When I look again at Mathilda, the light plays over her long hair, making the coppery highlights glow, and I think of her as a beneficent goddess bent low over the toads, blessing their pilgrimage. I feel a warmth expand across my chest that is both an opening and an ache. Having lived in Madison since she was two, she is a child of oaks and acorns, prairies and frozen lakes, someone who ice skates and heads to a nearby snowy playground in the winter to hit a tether ball or shoot baskets, her face bright from the cold when she returns. But even after going to graduate school in Madison and moving back here years ago when Mathilda was a toddler, I am still a child of fir trees and rhododendrons, sea shores and mountains, imprinted with the landscape of my childhood in Tacoma, Washington. I long to feel more grounded in Madison. And Lake Mendota seduces and soothes me, offering me a way to find my path along its shores. The lake winks through the trees to reveal vistas of wooded bluffs full of woodpeckers, warblers. Bright sprays of water splash up behind a group of black, chubby American coots that scurry across the surface of the lake before they can take flight. The trails that linger along the lip of the lake invite me on a pilgrimage of walking, reading, writing. Can I immerse myself in all of these lovely layers of landscape, meandering along these sun-sparkled waterways to find a home here, too? Mathilda looks up: “Mama, let’s go find some sea-glass!” I’ve got the best guide in the world. |
Hannah Pinkerton
ARCTIC AIR
by Hannah Pinkerton Pushing north Sun gets up earlier throwing shadows across bluish snow running up red pine to cobalt sky Cardinal shines Vatican red against purity of snow Woodpecker all fluffed out bereft of trim dandy look Chickadees on a zip line tree, feeder back to tree Sheltered in place behind bay window I taste cold color, drink clean clear sky take in my daily minimum requirement of gratitude. 
Sandy Stark
DAY
by Sandy Stark Birds counted in marsh, fields, trees and we left to seed burnt prairie in snow. Birds counted in marsh, fields, trees and we left to seed burnt prairie in snow. To be published in Hummingbird: Magazine of the Short Poem, coming in Nov. (XXX1, 2) issue 
Leta Landucci
The Lake Reaches
by Leta Landucci The lake reaches Upward it stretches Molecules of water slowing their euphoric jittering Linking hands to share electrons to assemble - architectural marvels of crystalline palisades Helical staircases unspooling, rungs sending refracted light, skittering ever climbing, unfolding Upward The trees bend their stiffened backs Stooping toward the lake, as if to catch the whispers of a tale Of all the swatches of color and pinpricks of starlight and contemplative faces to which the lake has served as looking glass The tree’s frozen fibers pluck water from the air Limbs encased in bubble-embedded chrysalides of ice Branches, elongating Molecule followed by molecule Downwards Reaching upward the lake shutters filamentous threads, growing pains Fractals etched across its skin, its frozen membrane Reaching Keep reaching Ever grasping For purchase An anchor It’s body a bridge A speleothem dripstone A confluence of stalactites and stalagmites The cavernous maw of an ice creature petrified mid howl punctuated by canine daggers Hourglass pillars to buttress a frozen fortress Icicle fingers Seeking out Reaching out Ever grasping For purchase An anchor Its body a bridge For connection |
