Poems by Mary Morris

Death of the Botanist

by Mary Morris

From Canary Summer 2021

Mary lives in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, part of the high mountain desert. Nearby is an Audubon center and, at higher elevations, a conifer and aspen forest. Coyote, deer, kit fox and other wildlife travel through the arroyo bordering her land.

Having failed at all rituals
paid the healer without a cure

we wrapped her in a shroud, buried
her in the orchard ripe with fruit, scent

of mint and fennel. This earth, she
weeded, wore leather gloves,

altered space, frayed, where cattle
once drifted, unattended.

Place she harvested stones for walls,
identified breakfast in a field.

There is elegy in the script of vine,
shot-up gentian, gnarled apple tree.

Lament—evolving hymn—
leaves in wind, honey

bee, redwing blackbird to finch,
requiem swoop of a red-tailed hawk.

How we mystify from this atlas,
buried in sediment, the entire garden

floating above her.