The Spot
The black spot came on a sunny day.
It was small but full as a school for ants
each one learning to swarm, to eat, to
serve the next. Where will I go when they
finish with me, in autumn rain when
I fall like a leaf
from the tree of my life.
All my souls will be flying on the wind,
a storm of stories ahead of the wavering night.
I trace with a crow's feather the map
they travel on my skin
the winding and the blowing away. Which
dark bird dropped it, what ink has dripped it
on time's page, the black spot that came
on a sunny day
and will not go away.
March 2025
posted for the Word Garden Word List
Images:Ants, © Dunja Zubak via internet Fair Use
Crows in flight, via internet author unknown Fair Use
This poem soars. "All my souls will be flying on the wind" is just beautiful. I especially resonate with "Where will I go when they finish with me...when I fall like a leaf from the tree of my life." This poem really speaks to me.
ReplyDeleteYou had me from the first line, Hedge. This is gripping, frightening, vivid, and so skillfully written. It made my heart clench, as I have no doubt such a spot would do as well, were I to awake on such a disturbing anthill. The notion of "ants" appearing on a "sunny day" is so antithetical to the idea of illness and mortality that these word choices make your poem all the more striking. Forget pianos falling from the sky. All it takes is a tiny hive-minded intruder. *shivers*
ReplyDeleteHow beautiful - I love how delicate and also how strong it is. A joy to read - Jae
ReplyDeleteThis shows your unmatched skill in delicate grue, with details that reach up and grab the reader by the eyeball stalk. I know April is not only for fools, and hope you put pen to paper (so to speak) this month.
ReplyDeleteThe imagery is stunning, by the end penetrating to the core as suddenly and as starkly as "the black spot."
ReplyDeleteThis made me think of skin cancer--the spot, coming on a sunny day, the spreading like a school of ants. It's no joke. My dad experienced it, and so, I hope my interpretation of your poem is not something you are experiencing, hedge!
ReplyDeleteThank you for the concern. I can't speak to your personal interpretation, and sorry about your father, but I'd rather we kept the comments on the poem, not the poet.
DeleteUnderstood, and thank you. If you delete my comment on your excellent poem I won't take offense. I get it--I've received comments I didn't feel were appropriate. I apologize for the overstep!
DeleteNo problem. Thanks for reading.
DeleteWhen I read this, I thought about fire ants. The cling on you, and you feel like you've been bitten by fire. The poem means so many things to me. It could be illness. It could be ink dropped, and no way to take it back. Part of me feels like what we're living. There's blight on freedom, and will we, us, tomorrow be able to fight its rotting loss.
ReplyDeleteFire ants are a great comparison, Susie. I echo your sentiments completely and also know from experience that things may survive rot, but they will never be what they could have been without it.
DeleteWonderfully done. Each line and image falling like a leaf through our deaths with compassion and beauty. The black spot becoming the ink is fantastic.
ReplyDelete