Poetry by Stacie Eirich
In thanks for the verses poet Mary Oliver gave us, a lifetime of paying attention & being astonished
I am sitting in the same space, on the same bench
surrounded by trees and branches, leaves and berries
and patches of sunlight — as I did six months ago in early spring.
The hum of cicadas, chirps of birds above, a hawk circling
overhead, limbs of branches stretching tall, leaves rippling
in light breeze, air shuffling, still warm yet cool enough not to sweat.
The distant rustle of cars on roadways beyond, whirr of air traffic
infrequent, chirps louder, longer, insistent as the pour of sun
through blue and green, as the fly who keeps interrupting my sack lunch
of potato salad and grapefruit, as the rise and fall of the cicadas’ song
which lasts the day — crescendoing and decrescendoing
as the hour lengthens.
A leaf floats in ripples to the thatch covered ground, nestling among bits
of branches, brown and tan and sprouts of green, sticks
and stumps and pinecones peppering this sanctuary.
Stillness and shadows descend, clouds covering the light, coolness ascending.
I wait for the sun to swallow the shadows, to peek out again and bathe
the sky, the trees, the ground, me — in warmth, but it does not come.
Instead, I’m left sitting with stillness, with my heart
waiting for light, watching as it creeps out to shine — first, on purple berries
perched upon so many branches, then on a brown thrush
of ground, patches lighting like connected stitches of quilts.
The golden glow is mottled, flecked in patterns, almost
reaching me.
I lean in, I hear Mary Oliver’s voice saying “Pay attention. Be astonished.”
I hear her reciting “When I am among the trees” and another voice saying
“We are all here for a brief time — a moment…”
What is this moment, and why does it matter? I ask myself questions
I don’t have the answers to. I ask myself why my child lives
when others do not, have not, will not.
I hear a friend and helper saying I carry grief and hope
together, praising me for it. I wonder how it is I earned such praise, I
who write poems and sing songs and sit in nature, listening.
The hawk circles slow above, wings spread, a majestic being
with laser eyes, killer instinct. My worth feels small
in comparison.
Smaller even more so than this earth and sky and these tall, bending
and connected, old and strong, resilient trees surrounding me.
Their lives large and infinite, their growth a thing slow, supple — amazing.
To feel the swell of the same breeze, a hitch of breath
in the same air, the same canopy of light (or is this peace?) as they do
is a moment to embrace, to give thanks, to realize a blessing of tenderness.
The blessing of tenderness in just sitting, breathing, listening
to chirps and chitters and hums — just being. Stillness
only interrupted by slight motions…the twirl of a leaf, the crawl
of an ant, the light of an insect on a branch, the moment
my pen rises and falls
across the paper — softly dazzled, quietly alive.
Stacie Eirich is a mother of two, poet and singer. Hope Like Sunlight (Bell Asteri Publishing, 2024), is her memoir benefitting St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital & Ronald McDonald House. Her poems have recently been published in The Poetry Lighthouse, Soul Poetry, and The Amazine. She lives in Texas.
