Edge
A long poem.
Ray Zimmerman photographed the Great Blue Heron at the wetland at Curtain Pole Road, a portion of the Tennessee Riverwalk in Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Today’s offering is my long poem, “Edge.” First, here is a commercial announcement about my upcoming poetry reading:
I will read my poetry four poetry posters, also known as Broadsides, on Wednesday, June 25, at 5:30 PM, at Rev Coffee and Books in Hixson, Tennessee. I have republished four 11” by 17” posters, each featuring a poem and one of my photographs. Anyone purchasing one of my books will receive a free poster.
Edge Ecotone… a transitional area of vegetation between two different plant communities… - Encyclopedia Britannica Sunrise tinges the edge where marsh meets sky, land meets water, night meets day and life meets death. Among predators bearing tooth and claw, I feel at home in this place. I gather meals among the sedge. We hunt and eat along the edge. My paddle bumps gunwales, pulls up insect eating bladderwort. Half-digested bugs are black specks captured when the plant’s translucent bubbles implode. Sundew leaves radiate on stalks like the orb, the spider’s web. Red and green leaves stretch outward. Sticky hairs ensnare flying food. Pitcher plant leaves curl into vases. Half filled with water they drown flies trapped by downward pointing hairs slowly digest their prey for minerals. Fingerlings and dragonfly nymphs swim among the maple roots. Feed on mosquito larvae. Feed the perch I catch for dinner. The maple swamp is green this spring day as bud scales open to release tiny red flowers. They offset green leaves as will the red fruits I once called helicopters and dropped to watch the wings spin but give no lift, except on windy days. Blue Jays call from branches, grab nestlings and eggs for lunch. Red crested woodpecker drills a snag for ants. Green leaves prepare to turn red in fall; gather warm thin sun make sugars to feed the tree. Today I cruise the marsh among fertile fronds of ferns. dislodge the red brown spores which give cinnamon fern its name. Land barely wet, barely on the edge where sterile fronds grab sunbeams, make food in leaves that are not leaves at all. A month ago they curled, fiddle heads like knobs on violins above the swampy ground home to snakes and frogs. Cleaning the day’s catch by the fire I contemplate herons. Like spectacled scholars they stand, beaks waiting along the edge. Like old men they lift knees high, put feet carefully down. Better fishers than I, they impale fish, snakes and frogs.
Of course I loved the carnivorous plants that appear.