My Little Poem: frond

"Of Bracken and Other Natural Fractals, as an Image of the Unfurling Soul," by Paul J. Pastor

Hello Poetry Friend

We have a new-ish dog, a single mom who roamed the mean streets. It should not have surprised us that she is a thief. Clothes, the occasional ballcap, towels (so many towels!). She gingerly extends her head, her teeth—sharp white hands—grabs and trots away, tail held high. She has captured another flag.

It is this image of a thief that came to mind while sitting with and learning by heart Pastor’s poem “Of Bracken and Other Natural Fractals, as an Image of the Unfurling Soul.” I don’t know what thief he had in mind, but I picture Evvie, black Lab, her stealing as predictable as a fractal.

Here’s that stanza:

The branch, the leaf,

The hand, the thief,

The way that we grow toward each grief.

–from “Of Bracken and Other Natural Fractals, as an Image of the Unfurling Soul,” by Paul J. Pastor

How do I grow toward each grief? Like Evvie, I steal.

Today’s full moon. Yesterday’s Latin at Mass. I steal the poem I am writing, the essay I am revising. The hug before work. The kiss before bed. Coffee with a friend. A walk in the dark with this dog, listening to a discussion of my favorite book. Each prayer a frond. All of it, so much bracken.

I say to grief, You are not everything.

And grief replies, I grow crystalline.

Without Synonym

A woman's body is a fractal.
As is the average motherless
flower. And this gulf coastline,
a moll curving north to the spot
where cottonwood bark cracked
but neverless branched and
branched. Flame became song—
AABA—sized to this very
feminine lung-tree.

–Megan Willome

Happy poeming!

Megan

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