Skunk Cabbage
by: Mary Oliver
And now as the iron rinds over
the ponds start dissolving,
you come, dreaming of ferns and flowers
and new leaves unfolding,
upon the brash
turnip-hearted skunk cabbage
slinging its bunched leaves up
through the chilly mud.
You kneel beside it. The smell
is lurid and flows out in the most
unabashed way, attracting
into itself a continual spattering
of protein. Appalling its rough
green caves, and the thought
of the thick root nested below, stubborn
and powerful as instinct!
But these are the woods you love,
where the secret name
of every death is life again--a miracle
wrought surely not of mere turning
but of dense and scalding reenactment. Not
tenderness, not longing, but daring and brawn
pull down the frozen waterfall, the past.
Ferns, leaves, flowers, the last subtle
refinements, elegant and careful, wait
to rise and flourish.
What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty.
It is spring, and Oliver ventures into her beloved woods in search of ferns and flowers and new leaves. What she finds flourishing in the mud is thick-rooted, smelling lurid, and unabashed.
The best laid plans, however. Sometimes, you think you're going to find wild blueberries, and all you find are goldenrod and nettles. I had lots of things I wanted to accomplish this weekend--from writing a new poem to grading student papers. Needless to say, I didn't get half done with my to-do list. I ended up kneeling in the mud, smelling the turnip-hearted skunk cabbage.
I did get lesson-plans done. Updated my online content for teaching. Planned out a poetry workshop that I had to cancel due to a power outage this evening. Edited an episode of a podcast. Plus, I played keyboard for two church services! I'm beat. Exhausted. I can't really accomplish anything more tonight.
Life isn't always pretty. In fact, I'd say that skunk cabbage frequently appears instead of roses.
Tonight, all Saint Marty can smell is that noxious weed. It's the smell of failure. Dark, heavy clouds shot through with disappointment.
