Small Magic, a poem

A map of neighborhoods

implies my absence.

That isn’t real.

A watershed is every footstep

Rivers run in pipes below your feet

Streams flow under roads

Filled wetlands, an anachronism:

we still pulse,

emerge, sometimes surprise

Put your hand to the ground

hear me below

My small magic

was

little wetlands dotted everywhere

puddles and frogs and arrowhead

interconnected intimacies

I offer restoration

and ask you to learn

— Nancy Aten

This poem was accepted for Ben Binversie’s Watershed Moments, a project in collaboration with Woodland Pattern.

My mentor