When the fences come down
and the roads go unmended,
the bison return with the prairie grass.
Pawpaw and butternut trees reach skyward
between downed transmission towers,
and the eastern caribou have their second coming.
Cattails spread across the old parking lot
when the spring bubbles back to the surface.
Peepers sing out their horniness,
whooping cranes cavort, and ducks
baptize their heads while mooning the sky.
Deer walk through an abandoned mall
overgrown with ostrich ferns and polypod
as bracken spores regreen the cracked tile floor.
Sweat bees hum their hymns.
Amen, the waterways are clear,
and fish fry devour mosquito larvae
beneath the lily pads.
Beneath the healing, unpolluted sky.
Shantell Powell is a two-spirit elder goth/swamp hag raised on the land and off the grid. An Aurora finalist, she’s a graduate of the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity. When not writing or making things, she wrangles chinchillas and gets filthy in the woods.
Interested in submitting to the 365 Collection? Complete your submission here during the last two weeks of National Poetry Month.