A Nature Poem by Kathryn Stripling Byer, North Carolina’s Poet Laureate

On writing poetry . . .

“A lot of my inspiration comes from nature (I'm sitting outside right now
with my laptop with two dogs at my feet, listening to the birds singing in
the woods!), because I loved to roam around the farm where I was raised and look and listen to everything. I use my memories of all that as inspiration, as
well as things I experience now.”

-- Kay Byer

On Black Rock Mountain Trail

(A Poem in Several Voices)

My mother was taught to sweep
corners clean, every pantry and closet,
the sandy yard smooth of all footprints
as well as the zig-zagging snail tracks of leaves
being blown about after the falling.

Woman’s work? To be ruthless
as wind making smooth all the rough places,
neatening up every counter top,
table, and writing desk, turning each surface
to landscapes of polished wood, no paper clips
tumbled over, no slap-dash of unanswered
letters and loose change dumped everywhere.

Now while the rain plasters leaves
to the muddy trail, I lose my faith
in a woman’s vocation. This path is a mess
of more leafmold than any could sweep clean,
the old logging roads buried
by decades of earth doing what
she does best, sealing over and
blotting out, wearing us down to her level
at last. She exhales a deep breath
and invites us to make our way through it.

 

1.

Wind

Whatever I sweep aside
comes to rest somewhere.
The sand from bare rock
silts down into gullies,
volcanic ash I shake
like dirt from your scatter
rugs. You see the trail
you have made disappearing
in murk, and the wet leaves
around you seem heavy
as sleep now you’re middle-aged.

 

2.

Rain

In your tent,
you hear only
what I let you
hear. You like
listening to me till
you fall asleep,
breathing
as if you’re a baby
just born.
and I can’t help
it, sometimes I feel
your lips trembling.

 

3.

Fire

You strike
and strike the wet match
against rock and curse
me as if I am magic
supposed to flare
up and make water boil.
Come on,
you wheedle,
but I can wait long as
I want before I
commence kindling.

4.

Earth

Best way to fall
is flat-out in the slimy leaves,
letting your gear
clatter over you, bedding and backpack
a burden that bears
you down.
What are roots for and snags
of dead sycamore,
wild grape vines
dangling like Tarzan’s
ropes? Try to hold on
as you’re sliding
the short way down home,
tasting leafmold that clings
to your lips, and remember
above all, be
stubborn as rock jutting
out of the sodden dishevelment.

Many thanks to Kay Byer for generously sharing this poem with us. Visit her website to learn more about her and the work of a poet laureate. She’s a great model and inspiration for the poet in all of us.