By Jamie K. Reaser, May 23, 2020
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| Photo of the poet in 1985 while working with the Caretta Research Project on Wassaw Island, off the coast of Savannah, Georgia |
Rising (In honor of World Turtle Day)
Paddling upward through layers of sand
with no knowledge of where to,
crazed, or mightily faithful,
I don’t know and I refuse to judge
these hundreds of tiny flippers
in a frenzy to meet the Great Mystery,
and possibly their death, imminently.
I prefer to crouch here in awe.
What they don’t know, I know:
Ghost crabs, raccoons, birds, big birds,
fish, big fish. They, many of these
little naïve ancient ones, will be snacked upon
like salted popcorn. Nab, swallow, and gone
from this world they barely entered
and could not name.
Look how they rush to their destiny,
risking everything because that’s
what it is to live, though, yes, that’s the terrible secret
that we keep shushing back into the underworld,
and look how they, bellies skidding, go forward to reach
the one world they are made for, and how,
like an equal lover, that world, that mighty crashing world,
is reaching back to them in waves. And, they are met.
Gasp.
Isn’t this what you want?
The perfect fit. The equal lover.
These precious scrambling things have got it right.
Standing in the sea oat-waving dunes, I’m absolutely sure of it.
How can the body, this body, any body
refuse to take the risk to rise?
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