Many years ago, we went to the zoo in Traverse City with my daughter,
grandsons and their Aunt Dorothy. They had some great river otters, splashing and playing!
But what captured my attention the most was this lynx that circled and circled his enclosure.
He knew he didn't belong there and so did I. There was such beauty to his wildness
and his sharply fur-tipped ears. Oh, lynx, I never saw a wild one, only you!
Another gray morning
in this month of valley fog.
Everything seems old, little threads and roots
sucking a cold sea.
When I look into it, the mirror
cups my face in its silver hands.
I hear my grandmother whispering
beneath her shawl---
Cloth of forgetfulness
Skull of the one night
Shag of wisdom
White grass of misery
In the yards, our children
are turning into clouds.
There are times when I shut my eyes
I stand in a place
from which journeys are forever beginning---
in the distance
a small feather of smoke, a haze
where the earth falls off,
(parts 1 and 2 of a four part poem)
Collecting the Animals, Carnegie Mellon, 1999, page 62.
I love the motion of mind in this poem.
We are compelled to follow, even in strange directions.
I think the poem goes well with the wildness, and even with the grayness, of the lynx,
my lynx of memory. My memory thread of wildness.