Asking the Great Meadows a Question
by Louise Berliner
Evening primrose went crisp
and caught the fuzz
off the bulrushes; yes,
they went pale and skeletal
while the asters merely fizzed,
and the explosion of the bulrush
Even milkweed joined the rampage,
while the waters rose
on either side of the dyke,
the geese and ducks
once again in charge.
As I lay in bed,
I thought I walked among the herons,
escorted down avenues
of blooming goldenrod,
by buttonbush, horse lettuce,
blue vervain, meadowsweet;
saw the burr marigolds
shining in the shallow flats,
the lotus still late summer green
with her fabulous floating platters
clouds for the fish below.
Now those elephant ears
listen under water,
and their seedpods hang
their little Munchkin hat heads
like old-fashioned telephone receivers.
Is anybody there?
A solo honk cuts the air,
bare stalks rustle in response.
I may not speak Goose,
but I recognize November.
What surgery did the seasons perform,
while I lay recovering in my bed,
the green going all kinds of color,
before surrendering to brown?
Louise Berliner plays with words, herbs, fiber, and vine. She has a studio at the Umbrella in Concord, MA. Her poems, articles, and short fiction have appeared in VQR, The Mom Egg, Porter Gulch Review, Ibbetson Review, Sacred Fire magazine, and plein air chapbook collections from Old Frog Pond and Fruitlands. She is the author of Texas Guinan, Queen of the Night Clubs, and when she isn’t writing or weaving can be found walking at Great Meadows National Wildlife Refuge.