Endless Lawn XXI

Here’s a poem describing the scent of the woods around the little island on the Elk River in Webster county, West Virginia where my friends and I meet to fish and build fires and sing and cuss. We call it Fish Creek as a sort of silly joke. Any river, stream, or creek can be Fish Creek, long as it’s got fish in it. I’ll post the first Fish Creek poem soon if y’all like this one.

From Fish Creek II

The restless spring air moves

and moves with it

the smell of the green world returning.

Where the base note is

musk and mud and detritus, rich and profound,

the dermis below and around

the quick-running water of the Elk,

and the middle is the spotted, slick hides of trout,

whose eyes, with that singular stare 

reflect countless years of instinct 

back to an observer;

the top note sings bright and sour and sweet.

That’s the scent of heart-shaped leaves,

clover, mittens, sprigs,

chutes, blades, and profusions of moss

growing, gilded beneath the noon sun.

The tang of resurrection mingles

with campfire smoke.

The dying hemlock

looms above its grave,

nurturing ferns and promising

to give its body up, 

but not its soul.

T. Evans, May 2023