Perhaps viewed from the lens of a Spring god,
I might be worshipping trees.
If the god is peering down through
blinked out stars and cloud-cover,
to view a pattern of spruce tree crowns,
a grove spiking up from the center of earth,
grown in a line across a long dead nurse log,
I’m the lonesome figure in a blue coat
and pond-slick boots soaked in raindrops,
surrounded by a hug of forest and bog.
From miles overhead, I might appear blurred
expect for a waver of myself slow-pinching
a spruce tip from a tree branch. I would
not be startled if a curious god shifted
into an indigo plumed bird to sit atop
a rotten stump adorned with frilly liverwort,
chattering her earthy jaysong. While I fill
my cedar bark basket, I would not
be surprised to be bestowed a single feather
fluttering on a mat of sphagnum
atop a thousand star-shaped heads.
An offering for taking up time and space here
amid the wonder of blue wavelengths reflecting
back, enticing me to twirl a single feather
flickering it round and round in the cool air.
—
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 poetry books, a collection of short stories, and a foodoir.
