Earth, Daughter, Life
You were six-months old and bundled
against my chest when we made our first
walk, through the open oak woods,
to the dawn-fired lake. A dragonfly
danced for you. Your eyes followed.
In the seven years since, it’s been
your pleasure to stand on the shore
and holler towards the far trees, awaiting
an echo you never fail to hear.
A new voice will come to you.
Your steps will be portioned out
like dandelion seeds sailing
out on your breath.
I’ll make subsequent walks
in the company of a quiet guest.
I’ll take the false pennyroyal
we crushed into my handkerchief
and shift it from hand to hand
while fallen aspen leaves
scamper over my feet.
Brian Lowry writes from the southern Indiana farm he shares with his wife and young daughter. His creative work has appeared in Farming Magazine: People, Land, and Community; New Southerner; Ruminate Magazine; Avocet; The Herald Sparrow; The Quill; in HGTV's book, Flower Gardening; on WFPL radio's "HomeGrown”; and in several newspapers. He is the 2007 winner of Ruminate Magazine’s Annual Poetry Contest. He is a 2008 Finalist for the New Southerner Literary Contest. Two of his poems will be included in an upcoming anthology on Hoosier Nature Poetry. He serves as a middle school counselor and English teacher.