Endemophilia

This poem is sort of my version of endemophilia, describing (as Albrecht defines it) “the particular love of the locally and regionally distinctive in the people of that place. It is similar to what Relph … called “existential insideness” or the deep, satisfying feeling of being truly at home with one’s place and culture.” You might want to check out Glenn Albrecht’s site for more detailed definitions and philosophical/psychological reasons for inventing names for such concepts.

My long-poem in Water-Rites, “The Valley, the Whitetail: A History,” probably fits the term endemophilia more closely than the poem I’ve posted below–which may one day appear in print if I can find a publisher for my next manuscript. But the long-poem is a little too long for a blog post.

[I have an idea: buy a copy of Water-Rites from Brick Road Poetry Press, and read it there!]

~

Suburban Georgic

A mild day in February. Good chance

there’ll be more snow or ice. Walk slowly,

note the footprint of a hosta, dormant, or

the arrow-shaped deer hoof in hardened soil.

Look more closely for the ravages and burrows

of rodentia—woodchucks, voles and mice.

You may discover where squirrels have

hidden seeds or laid waste to crocus corms—

try to restrain your wrath. Decide

how best to counter such yearly looting;

strategy keeps the mind sharp. Grubs,

for instance, in your lawn—a different tack,

and this year you may succeed, and keep

the skunks from rooting through the grass.

Weigh, in your mind and pocketbook,

the relative costs of pesticide and herbicide.

It might be the year to go organic,

though there’s even odds the dandelions will thrive.

Ease your troubled breast from lawn woes.

Raise your eyes to forsythia, to witch-hazel,

observe critically the shrubs’ bare bones,

decide what needs the kindest cut,

find your saw and pruners, time to oil

and sharpen—your fingers itch—

but it’s a little soon. To assuage your

yearning, cut back the redtwig osier

so its new growth will flush crimson.

Consider forcing blooms indoors—

aren’t there soft, small swellings on

the slim wands of pussywillow?

When the next storm hits, dream of columbine

and narcissus. Get out your Horace, and wait.

quince blossoms

~

© 2008 Ann E. Michael

~

Waiting, in the place I call home, for spring.