Under the trellis of sky and fog as thick as smoke
and beneath the branches of cedar and hemlock,
I travel along a well-worn island trail.
It’s strange to consider while exploring
this forest path, a scant turn of leaf is unseen,
as is the pulsing swell of tree trunk as it bulges.
No stark lift of sea here like sheets of ocean billowing
toward my seawall, but there’s this other tide
that’s lunisolar, all around me. This tidal rhythm
is stacked beneath waving branches, unfurling tendrils,
leaves waving in response to the wax and wane
of sun and moon. It’s a tragedy that I spent half my life
not knowing about this leaf-tide, the slight turn of ferns
when the tide pulls in, and the bow of alder
when the sea streams out. Under light or darkness,
the tide goes on and on, and it doesn’t matter
if I am flesh of fish, or human skin, or tender leaf,
even mountain and dirt on the path, there is a tide
moving and pulling everything. Now that I know
about this wonderous leaf-tide, the rhythmic nod
and bend of jagged-edged leaves on the alders next
to my cabin, I can stand on my porch in the summer night
and consider the lichen-bearded old cedar, perhaps it too
weeps under the brilliant, full moon’s glow.
—
Vivian Faith Prescott was born and raised on the island of Kaachx̱ana.áakʼw, Wrangell, Alaska, in the Alexander Archipelago. She lives and writes in Lingít Aaní at Mickey’s Fishcamp. She’s a member of the Pacific Sámi Searvi and founding member of Community Roots, the first LGBTQIA group on the island. She currently mentors writers through two Alaskan writers’ groups: Blue Canoe Writers and the Drumlin Poets. She’s the author of books of poetry, a collection of short stories, and a foodoir.
