Poems by Cathy Hird

Cradled

"Something there is that doesn't love a wall"
Robert Frost

by Cathy Hird

From Canary Summer 2022

For over thirty years, Cathy ran a family sheep farm on the edge of the spine of limestone known as the Niagara Escarpment. In 2018, she moved a little north and now lives sheltered under the same escarpment on the fresh water inland sea known as Waaseyaagami-wiikwed by the Ojibwe, the traditional keepers of this land.

The way you're being buried
some would think you have no place.
But something there is, I do believe,
that just adores a fence row.

Rocks hauled from the field
piled decade after decade, gaining
lichen, moss and humus, leaves
that fall and turn to dirt, cradled
in the crevices between.

Trees not cleared send roots beneath
your rocks, stretch up and out
home to squirrels and birds while
chipmunks scamper along the wall,
shelter in the spaces
cradled safe from fox and coyote.

Choke cherries line the edge, protected
by your rock from plow and haybine.
At their feet, wild strawberries flourish.
Grapevines find the soil beneath the stones
reach across, around, along the rocky pathway.
Raspberries find ground to harbor roots.
All that luscious fruit provided free.

Hawk perches on a branch above
watches field. Be careful, mouse!
Russet thrush flashes into view, hides again.
Blue jays hop from tree to tree while
chick-a-dee-dee-dee rings out, a cousin answers.

Cedar posts are here, and poles attached.
Woven wire to fence in sheep.
A barrier you are, I will admit,
but mostly, you feel like home.

© Cathy Hird

Wounded

by Cathy Hird

From Canary Fall 2022

I saw the bark before I saw the wound
black strip curled on the grass
tempting my dog to chew and rip.
Looking up I cringed for you
sickly grey wood where your skin should be.

You survived the clearing of this space
young tree left standing to shade the grass
an act of gratitude for tart fruit offered
to those who reach and pick
and those who graze the fallen.

Something injured you, carved this laceration
machine or hungry porcupine, disease perhaps,
explains how few apples formed this year
upon your branches.
How much longer can you stand,
wounded, suffering
so little left to offer but your wood.