Skunk Cabbage

There's not much to show in knitting, and my reading is almost nonexistent, but it is the beginning of National Poetry Month. Last weekend when we went fishing I explored the surrounding woods, and found a whole grove of skunk cabbage, beginning to unfurl. And who else but Mary Oliver would have written a poem entitled Skunk Cabbage?

Skunk Cabbage by Mary Oliver

And now as the iron rinds over
the ponds start dissolving,
you come, dreaming of ferns and flowers
and new leaves unfolding,
upon the brash
turnip-hearted skunk cabbage
slinging its bunched leaves up
through the chilling mud.
You kneel beside it. The smell
is lurid and flows out in the most
unabashed way, attracting
into itself a continual spattering
of protein. Appalling its rough
green caves, and the thought
of the thick root nested below, stubborn
and powerful as instinct!
But these are the woods you love,
where the secret name
of every death is life again - a miracle
wrought surely not of mere turning
but of dense and scalding reenactment. Not
tenderness, not longing, but daring and brawn
pull down the frozen waterfall, the past.
Ferns, leaves, flowers, the last subtle
refinements, elegant and easeful, wait
to rise and flourish.
What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty.

Like Kym says, "... we really need poetry. Now more than ever."