by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

 
 

April 27, 2023

I had seen a catalpa before but I didn’t know
how mighty, how they grow under so much sun
and shine. Some swooped so heavy and so low
you’d need a metal beam to help hoist up

their branches and the giant leaves like a skirt
over a puddle. When you say it — catalpa — it sounds
like you’re trying to chew a mouthful of gumdrops,
all the smarting sugar already tongued off clean

when you try to tell someone a secret.
Have you ever told a catalpa a secret?
And the redbuds! I never understood purple
until I saw one here — how its blooms plash out

like an unexpected party — the most beautiful wound
in a redbud’s bark. Sometimes a scrape of nest
falls from loblolly pines like a mud turtle
from my hands. Surely my marbled lungs

still carry spring pollen. Which suits me just fine —
a glorious gold-green rewarding every thing
in its path with a sylvan radiance, tiny confetti. What else 
do I practice here but the lost muscle of breathing?

 
 
 

Aimee Nezhukumatathil is the New York Times bestselling author of a book of nature essays, World of Wonders, and four collections of poetry. Honors include fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Guggenheim Foundation. She is Professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of Mississippi.

Photo by Dustin Parsons

 
 
 
 

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