Fog in the fens.
In the deep end of winter,
branches black and bare,
mist, and a wisp of steam
rising from a beaver lodge.
Everything turtle and toady
is still. Only a rustle of wings
deeper in.
I’m waiting for velvet
catkins and the gurgling
plunger sounds of a bittern
hiding among the sedges,
his throat stretched up and body
wavering like windblown reeds
but now ice scrims the pond
and the sky is lead.
I am waiting for sun-
light glancing off the pond,
for the everywhere hum and hustle
of watery things, for the rain-
slicker cheer of marsh marigolds.
Within their roots is a dream
of that yellow, and a purple
only the bees can see.
This poem first appeared in Embracing Wetlands (2024).
—
Marion Starling Boyer is a professor emerita of Communication and has published three full-length poetry collections and three chapbooks. Her book, Ice Hours (2023), won the University of Michigan’s Wheelbarrow prize and was named “New and Noteworthy” by Poets & Writers. Her chapbook, What Word for This, won Grayson Books 2023 competition. Boyer lives in Twinsburg, Ohio, home of the annual world gathering of twins. She conducts workshops for Lit Cleveland. www.marionstarlingboyer.com.
