For The Moment, at Least

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• For The Moment, at Least
• Jacque Vaught Brogan

Notre Dame

October 12–13, 2023

The Poem is mad. In fact, it almost refused to meetThis year. But it showed up today, saying, "I don't want to talk about it.Any of it. At all. Even if it is trueThat your 'unprecedented' wildfires have 'reversedSeven years' progress in cleaning our air,' "it is just too easyTo recall the odd orange haze that, all of June,Sullied the sky and dimmed the sun. Even if it is trueThat 'dangerous particulates' stretched all the wayFrom Canada past Florida, it is just too simpleTo underscore how the sumacs have suffered the effect—How they are 'hung with dried leaves, /Clinging to broken branches like dead moths.'(Your words, dear friend, not mine.)"

The Poem is, frankly, being pissy. "And," it continuesTo complain, "even if the extensive drought and heatThrough summer's end blighted the corn and wheatOf the entire Midwest, it is too facile, by far, to turnTo the trees and say, 'The oak leaves drooplike dirty gloves' or that 'Patches in the maplesare missing, / Having turned a crackled brown /Before dropping far too early, / Alreadymere leaf-trash on the ground.'"

It refuses to talk about it—All the suffocating earthquakes and floods elsewhere—And cringes when it cries that it didn't want to hearAbout the babies and beheadings or that nowThere is "No safe place left in Gaza."

"It takes courage," the Poem insists,"—or can we still say, 'real chutzpah'?—to report that last month'The Banyan Tree on Maui,' though seemingly burnedBeyond hope, was 'showing sprouts on its lower limbs,'And that just this past week, the Banyan is re-leafing,Against all odds, 'even in its upper canopy.' [End Page 107]

"SO?—WHAT OF THIS?," the Poem demands."What OF it? Dare you admit (much less describe)How today, at this rendezvous by the lakes, we see poplarsAnd Northern Ash still fanning full green leaves—Waving them in quiet applause to this changing season?Or that here and there random leaves, having reachedTheir longed-for color, let go, make clicking soundsAt first, among the blowing upper branches,Then drift, side to side, riding the soft breezeThrough light and shadowed limbs, before landing—Rather, settling—like yellow butterflies in the eve?

"Can't you see that the lakes themselves shiftLike a living kaleidoscope? Panes of gray and blue tiltAgainst each other, edged with orange and white ripplesRunning each over the other, as if excited to endIn myriad displays of winking, twinkling flashes?

"THIS is poetry," the Poem declares. "Not death and destruction,And not even these halting, faltering words,But Spirit unfolding . . . Being—as real as real can be."

The Poem, rather spent, agrees to walk, hand in hand,Along the well-worn path we have followed around the lakesEach year—through the walnut grove, past the sycamoresWhere the woods begin to thin, to small stretchesOf welcoming grass ("always green here," we agree,"even under the heaviest of snows"). We leave the sceneAlone, trusting it to speak for itself.

As we round the most western endOf the larger, second lake, an unremembered bendSuddenly reveals a most surprising spread of flowers— late, mature marsh marigolds laced at the water's edge—A pleasing foreground that presages or, perhaps embraces,The fabled dome back to the east, truly gilded by the setting sun.(It needs no words from either of us, this actual still life,Etched so well into memory.)

And then—a rapid hiss—Sound of unseen motion. From behind the broken ridgeOf half-submerged logs, a lone swan appears, Traveling without mate, turned slightly sideways (Almost in profile), but approaching nonetheless— [End Page 108] Gliding, it seems, without effort, Calm, serene, and sure.

The Poem and I turn, and stare at each other."WELL? WHAT OF THIS?," I long to repeat."WHAT OF ALL THIS?—," I ask, "—THIS FALL?"

"What," I ache to know, "is left—what more—is yet to come?" [End Page 109]

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