All She Does is Write it Down and Say Thank You

                        for Annie Finch

What she hears

in the solitude of water

she remembers

into poems.

It Was Written Long Ago

It was written long ago: the wing’s beat

and the owl’s stare; the cool drink of morning

on the mountain. The verdant fields knew how

to sing long before the blue bunting rose

to the occasion, long before tourists

rose up from the pavement and declared this

land pure.

                     Vessels with technology might

be combing Lake Champlain for history

but we know there’s no fatidic tale the

lake will tell. It was written in our bones

only we don’t pay attention to that

story anymore. The ursine birth of

our distractions keeps us hibernated

through winter and beyond.

                                                  It is quiet

enough at the top of Owl’s Head to hear

your own voice pierce the stillness, crack it like

a quartz line.  The fear settles over you,

an infant in a blanket.  The wind. 

It was written long ago: The echo 

of someone’s love barely touching your skin. 

It was always going to be like this. 

Samantha Kolber