Poems by Tricia Knoll
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An Inkling, An Urgency, A Patience
by Tricia Knoll
From Canary Summer 2023
Tricia lives in the Vermont woods on unceded lands of the Western Abenaki people.
The big word today is resilience,
hoisted like a banner to flap in dry wind
of drought. Having lost this or that squared,
let us encourage the persistence of those.
In a kibbutz a man tastes the first Judaean date
grown since the time of Jesus from seeds
found in a desert wilderness. Sweetness
unlike any other date grown today.
He calls this agricultural archaeology.
Taste lost, restored. I might call it magic.
Or wisdom old as dirt. In the seeds
an inkling, an urgency, a patience.
Sequoias burn. New ones sprout.
If we are not here to see their grandeur,
the soil may know or the squirrels.
They may burn again.
Winds whip us. Heat scorches.
Seas flood. This drought cracks us.
Beside my whisk broom, the spider
scurries to a crack I cannot see.
Inkling. Urgency. Patience.
Perhaps a gentle hand will help.
Perhaps not.
That is all I know of persistence.
© Tricia Knoll
Every Day Tell the Hours by the Shadows
—after Adelaide Crapsey
by Tricia Knoll
Evening presses December’s gloom.
Snow-burdens fall on the roof from hickory trees,
drum on the sky lights and smother them in slush.
Little Dog shudders, the one who fears her house
will fall to pieces if she relaxes her vigilance,
the one who later snores in my bed.
The sift of snow weights pine branches into slants.
The shadow of my hand hovers over lined paper:
a lone fist, curved hook with no eye.
My guest left today. This vacant hour piles
on top of the day’s listless work: wash, fold,
sweep, stretch clean sheets, shovel the walk
no one uses. All that’s left is to call the dog
from her bone, turn off two table lamps,
nod good-night to the snow-glow moon,
and walk to where my shadow sleeps.
© Tricia Knoll
The Luxury of Pockets
by Tricia Knoll
From Canary Fall 2023
Do you remember old clothes cast off?
Their hemlines, necklines, touch-sense
of nubby wool, velour, fine linen
or cobalt blue. Recall pockets.
Not deep ones as in gold coins.
Not cut-corners of apparel
with none at all. Yes, the banquets
of secrets, hands in deep softness
like notes to self, like mothers.
For retreats and receipts of deeds done.
Where a key hides from the public
or the fist has its say without fighting.
Maybe well-worn wide-wale corduroy
where lint lurked in the bottom. The hollow
for the dog biscuit in the down jacket
that the puppy chewed its way into.
You hide from January’s chill gloveless
or remember sadness when hands forget
what else to do next. The benevolence
of plush that feels like prayer.
Those gifts we gave to good souls,
the offerings of old t-shirts
to children in refugee camps
with lives threadbare of walls
who hold shallow bowls, drink doubtful water,
sleep with sick siblings and worried fathers,
and wear charity sweatpants empty
of the pebble treasures of childhood.
© Tricia Knoll
The Record Heat Wave in Portland, Oregon
by Tricia Knoll
From Canary Summer 2023
sat flat on us, hot water in our birdbath,
no waves. A high-altitude north wind
swept smoke and ash down from BC wildfires
at Carp Lake, Dawson Creek, White River,
Battle Mountain and End of Sun Glow.
To waft this far – to open up dawn
with mist that is not mist.
We who watch ferns curl
and rose petals fall to pieces
know this is new. Pundits warn
not to breathe the sky, worse
than Shanghai. We mutter advice
on hydration, elder care, oscillating
fans, learn the sociology of heat islands –
that tents by freeways are not shelters.
Sunset smothers down in smears of apricot.
Unseen, high in spruces the crows pant.
© Tricia Knoll
Walking on Water
by Tricia Knoll
Wait for ice to paralyze
the pond, for the crackling
thinness to thicken
so the under-water moans.
Scuffle through rice-snow
where slush went solid
around someone else’s boot.
Hike around the hockey rink
and the men and children ice fishing
beside coolers of beer and chips.
Let the lake lure you
away from the eyes of cabins,
from smoke signals
fanning from chimneys.
January’s water strider,
as small as the lake makes you
hidden in a hooded coat.
© Tricia Knoll