Robin Davidson

A Spell in Eleven Lines

Anemones, forsythia, the daffodils’ frilled frames look back at her, a woman under a spell.
A woman under a spell carries sprigs of pine, cedar, one rose-plum anemone to place on a dead bird.
A dead bird is still beautiful, black and orange, claws curled in place, a shadow, the ghost of a song.
A shadow, the ghost of a song, is what’s led the woman to cedars, the unnamed bird, the forest of night.
The forest of night is what she must watch, still, alone, outside her window, the bird buried and waiting.
The bird buried and waiting is a sign that out of forest cedar and forsythia, her voice will open into body.
Her voice will open into body when she breathes onto paper, noun/verb/noun/verb, what’s ancient in her.
What’s ancient in her is a forest—anemones, forsythia, daffodils, cedar and pine, the bird resurrected.
The bird resurrected, one line at a time, is a humming grown wild, the prayerwork of poems.
The prayerwork of poems is the unsuspected salvation of a woman in need of a forest of spells.
Forest wind, rain, silt, syllables, gather in her bones, her hands, and she leans in, stokes the fire, begins.