Water Prayer —for Joe Bruchac and Jerry Ramsay O plumed, light-shot fountain. Hydraulics of the Holy. O! As a kestrel hovers, wingtips quivering on unmoving air, so the lullaby levitated, feathery. Or a trace of sound of footfall on the forest floor in spruce-green Monhegan’s Cathedral Woods. So much depending on the interplay of melody and drone, his listeners drawn in, borne aloft, an ancient weightlessness. When the Abenaki storyteller finished, he put away the chambered flute, lifted a water bottle, & gazed down, briefly, before sipping it. Not thinking, but a prayer, he told us, to the Spirit who’d granted Creation the sacred spring. In the quiet after, a friend told me he’d recently placed a kestrel box in Bucks County, where the Holicong Road meets Quarry. Where the underground river ran beneath the feet of the Lenape. Where every September from my third-floor window I’d see the aged sugar maple on that corner heralding fall, lifting copious gallons of water to shimmer its gold-vermilion leaves, & at night, when I lay sleeping, releasing an outflow back into the soil, so the wildflowers rioted around it. O plumed, light-shot fountain. Hydraulics of the Holy. O!
Steve Myers has published a full-length collection, Memory’s Dog, and two chapbooks. A Pushcart Prize winner, he has recently published poems in journals such as Callaloo, Hotel America, Paterson Literary Review, The Southern Review,Tar River Poetry and Valley Voices.