For our grandfather, Dresden Norris (1902-1981)
Is my house modest? Green, always—but disconnected, windows left open, ears aimed toward an emptied heaven, an intelligent sound, a drop or two of crystal, see-through rain, that disappears before arrival, warning continuance is at risk, with few remnants and sustenance in peril. The lower meadow floods before the sheep graze, and the wild turkey must nest within the disappearing tree line. Sometimes, the earth loses weight and turns skinny.
If you blink, you’ll miss the secret, the central fear—the last pay phone on earth for example. I am bound to a sacred, wordless solution. Grandfather taught us to clean the forests before they grow teeth, digest wisdom or swallow undergrowth no longer capable of nourishment, and sever the arrogance of saplings incapable of shade or heat. Necessity is transient, always returning, searching for the log cabin within, afraid of a deep sleep, finding no one home. Embracing wordless energy requires sensitive hearing. Ears matter, voice is optional. Grandfather stuttered, so he pointed out secrets and made paths that fit into our shoes. He walked slowly and grew honey even after the bees lost hope.
My house. So tiny it stands only when I’m not there, so small, it exists only when I watch it rain from the inside out. It has grown into the forest like a mushroom, a useful fungus. It could be the edge of solution, even an epicenter of compliance. But if you were to drive by, you’d miss it. Instead of visiting, you’d embrace a conspiracy sprouted far, far away. You’d think the sun was cooling, or maybe speeding up, or death had no place, and renewal was the art of an ecologically constructed slogan, measureless, yet ready for publication. It’s Thursday. It’s a nice day, but a storm is looming. I am always repairing a broken window in my house, so rain won’t end up in the wrong place. I claim my part. I belong.
The meadow beyond the forest appears flat in the distance. This year the lambs are playing, carelessly. The sheep are healthy and fat. Their wool will be harvested. For many winters our shoulders and feet will stay warm. A flock of wild turkeys find their way into a thick hedge. They have no secrets. Their feathers fold into limited sunlight, their mysterious shadows fill the emptiness. So, I listen, keep my voice small, repair what’s broken inside my house, and leave everything else alone.
When the storm arrives,
the sky will remain untouched,
the earth will endure.
—
Tovli Simiryan lives near Lake Erie with her husband Yosif and spends her time filling up little pieces of paper with words until they morph into stories and poems, eventually discovering lives of their own. Her writings have appeared in several literary journals and anthologies, including Tiferet, The Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Conversations, Light Enters the Grove, and Autumn Sky. Inside Nissan—Soul-Correction Poetry, published in 2024, is her fourth volume of poetry.
