Nymphs
The first time
I went to the tree
was to knock on wood.
No one answered.
The second time I knocked,
the tree, wild in the wind,
leaned toward me.
No bad luck arrived.
I went back and knocked again
to tell the tree
my good fortune
was not forgotten.
•
Chiseling a nest hole
in dead wood,
a woodpecker drills a downed log.
The rapid blows of its beak
hammer me awake
each night for a week.
•
Beneath the bark
nymphs live
like hidden charms
people leave
in drawers or cupboards
for protection.
I believe in tree spirits
who embed their souls
in this wood.
•
They are not immortal
•
but their lives,
says Hesiod,
are ten times
that of the phoenix,
who outlives nine
ravens, who outlive
three glorious stags,
who outlive four
crows, who outlive
nine generations of aged men.
•
Beyond the shelter-
belts of farmsteads,
found deep
in poplar woods
and birch thickets,
a flicker assaults a tree
as nymphs
retreat into the tunneled
ruts of the trunk.
The bird chips away
without distraction.
Its showy
red patch,
a splash of blood,
catches my eye.
•
Tender
wing buds
of an immature insect
are like the rising
nipples of a
young girl.
The temptation
to slide a finger
over the small mounds...
•
Fly away!
•
The nymphs are free,
changed forever
as they brush
the pond's scalloped edge.
What part of me they take away
will settle some day.
Deep in dying wood.
I will be there
when you knock.
Copyright Credit: Francine Sterle, "Nymphs" from Every Bird is One Bird. Copyright © 2001 by Francine Sterle. Reprinted by permission of Tupelo Press.
Source: Every Bird is One Bird (Tupelo Press, 2001)