Postures of Devotion

^{—after Kaveh Akbar’s “Poetry and Spirituality”}

Before me Kawishiwi stretches— 
river a palette of frost. Nearby  
glazed berries dot the cranberry bushes, 
melt into mirage. Icicles 
too drip remembrance.

But metaphors of a world asleep  
fail this place where even now 
a pileated woodpecker beats a rhythm  
of search—repeats, day by day deeper.  
Watch while the leafless oak opens.

Beneath the protective skin 
of tree, more hard-shelled beings— 
bark beetles, exoskeletons of ants. 
Hear the purr of wings landing,  
jarring rattle as head recites hunger. 

Watch the red blur of devotion—  
manic as our soul, our alone. 
Yet steadily each body maps resilience. 
Where survival turns with planet,  
chases the sun, wait is a courage

we name winter. Beneath ice 
mink, muskrat, and otter swim, 
stalk sleek shadows of fish.  
Woodland dwellers find feast each season— 
oh despair, make that your gospel.

Still, forest grandmothers—all roots 
trunks and limbs—uphold their pact. 
In rhythm of warm days and freezing  
nights, tree roots suction, sap spills 
through bark wounds. Then our tongues 
sticky with spring—then, our song. 

But, in January, we hold this promise. 
While lake ice shifts, dark a murmur, 
a creak. Now moonlight falls on snow crusts— 
always where two touch, night glistens. 
When distant wolf howls, answer comes.

Imagine the upturned muzzle, body  
a triangle of sound. Hazel eyes  
mere slits. This reverence—an ancient hunger 
for pack. See, too, each black branch; 
limbing—bare, suspended in soon.

How pristine the listening posture 
of pine marten, of fisher, of fox— 
each body cocked. To pounce, to dive 
nose-first into snow’s secrets, 
to search winter tunnels for mice.

We, too, poised like supplicants— 
rawness of the world a prayer 
we read but cannot speak. Silence 
an invocation, heavy as tobacco  
sinking into snow—into earth’s altar.

Against moon’s brilliance, slit your eyes. 
Let warmth of reflected light fill you; 
that holy—that glance of tiny gods. 
Make of your hands an empty globe, 
your body a vessel taut as river.