LITTLE STORIES
Jim Northrup, 1943-2016
The dead cottonwood leans its broken fork
like a Y-brace against
the live cottonwood. Who’s
helping whom? The river’s work
is steady, seasonal... flows
nearby. Past Fort Snelling
like a hurt knee – swelling
strong west branch waters,
Dakota memory. The boarding school
in Pipestone, pushing English
like a Ghost Dance wish
across calumet plains. Clouds pool
like smoke under their limitless
blue dome. The little stories
join hands – morning glories
vining indigo blooms... a sky-caress
out of heavy red clay. She will go
with you to the Happy Land
her canoe made of almond
joy heartbeats, in waves. I know
where I’m going... just a change of address.
The flower of a smile
blooms out of dust – the trial
just a test of loving (wilderness).
You’ll find the carnation in a sailor’s
chest, the rose in a worn
lapel. So being born
will ride the swell, through locks, through doors.
8.8.16
*for more information about Jim Northrup, see today's NY Times obituary
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