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      June 24, 2014After Her AffairLynne Knight

      Here’s what he does to reclaim the ravine:
      He puts on leather gloves and strips 
      the bank of brambles. This takes weeks.
      He burns the debris in a pile late one night
      while sparks shoot out like stars into the dark.
       
      Then he digs for hidden roots and rakes
      the bank clean. By now it’s summer.
      He plants spider yarrow, witch hazel, 
      arbutus and wild ginger. Lady’s mantle,
      slender hairgrass, wild lily of the valley.
       
      Hellebore along the narrow path above,
      fireweed by the creek bed. All winter 
      under rain the ravine readies itself. 
      Buds, bursting. And when the flowers
      come, the ravine studded with yellows
       
      and whites, reds and grape blues, 
      he stands at the window, his hands
      still sore from the digging and planting,
      the tending, his bones aching a little
      deeper, the brambles nowhere to be seen.

      from #42 - Winter 2013

      Lynne Knight

      “I walk by this ravine almost every morning. Years ago, it was overrun with brambles. Then one year, whoever lived in the house by the ravine slowly cleared the brambles and planted wildflowers. I walk at dawn, so I never saw anyone at work. But it was easy to imagine a source for all the energy it must have taken to reclaim the ravine, the way it was easy to turn the brambles into metaphor.”

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