Poems by Polly Brown
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Asters
for Alex
by Polly Brown
From Canary Summer 2022
In retirement Polly has returned to a family place she’s known and loved all her life but never lived in full time. Just uphill from the Sandy River, in the Kennebec watershed, she’s continuing a weekly bird list her grandmother and mother started long ago.
This morning, after the mechanic across the river
revived our ancient car, I thought about batteries
and hearts, and hurried home—to find you
still asleep. So I’ve come out alone, to walk
where you don’t like walking, in the woods
where beavers left logs helter-skelter, hung
in other trees or sprawling unused, a danger
for anyone precariously balanced. “And a waste,” I hear
your voice say. “Rotten planning.” Downhill
by the brook, flooded, strangled spruce kept dying
long past the beavers’ departure, water’s drop—
lichen-festooned, root crowns heaved high.
When you’re with me you stand away
from all of this. Still, in this new meadow grown
in the old trees’ graveyard, I cross the brook
with a leap into thick grass, rich purple
asters. I gather change that’s blossoming
out of change, to bring back to you.
© Polly Brown
Origin Story
by Polly Brown
From Canary Summer 2022
I arrived at the door with a pailful
of water dipped from the pond’s
stemmy shallows, and Gram brought
a wide white soup bowl for me—
white so the least speck would show—
and a magnifying glass she kept near
for reading. Then she turned back
to the stove. Hunched over, I watched
a stick with jaws, six jointed sticks
for legs; watched punctuation whiz
around and back; counted the beats
of a heart in a see-through frog. Akin
to mine, the same life, urgent,
whirring. That morning I fell
into love more than soup-bowl
deep; fell through the pond’s own
trembling skin, to live with beetles
and leaches. Winter, I burrow
in mud. Spring, croak with joy.
Becomes What She Sees
remains one of my names.
© Polly Brown