Encounters With Wildness

poems & photography by Melissa Fritchle

When Can We Go Back?

Hands steady on the tabletop last night, I listened

as my good friend talked about the end of her marriage. She held

her body still while her eyes were wide, filled with fear

disorientation of something missed, something slipped, spinning out

into new axis, new trajectories and now saying goodbye

to a planned and precious future.

Haunted by ‘what if’s - Can we go back to a time when repair was still an option?

Sitting there I saw these questions as ghosts, intangible.

We can reach for them endlessly and never get contact.

 

Just yesterday afternoon I read about golden frogs

that used to exist. Not mythical storybook imaginings,

actual golden frogs that would glow in dusk light in jungles

for the three days they would come above ground

to breed in undulating piles of reflected light.

They quietly went extinct

with only a few scientists witnessing and documenting.

And yellow, red, and blue feathered parakeets

that ate brambles that harmed all other creatures. Gone now.

And ice melting faster, and coral going white

like a terrified face draining of color.

Entire languages gone with an elder’s last breath.

A friend’s dearest friend, Eva,

for me only a name on a text chain, a smiling face in a feed,

died this new year’s eve of pneumonia, 54 years old.

 

If I stay connected to it all, I know.

 

Every day is a moment when we can’t go back to what was.

Every day goodbyes, coming faster now, tumbling

away from old foundations.

The temptation to hold on more tightly,

to search for reassurance in familiar eyes.

Needing the strength to let it sift through fingers

loving it,

loving it as it breaks my heart.

 

I will never see the golden frogs, more ghosts,

but last week a cave opened up on my beach. Tumult of winter ocean

pulling boulders out of place, unimaginable power, shifting sands.

A fairy tale of appearances and disappearances,

Dark openings and invitations.

We must keep finding new magic now.

Every day.

Every day the moment when we cannot go back.

Don’t forget all there has been to love.

Feel the change in you, the wiser broken heart in each step

into an unknown world.

 

  • Fritchle (2020)

 

Lucy at 4:30am

Its 4:30am

and I am wrapped around. my cat,

her shoulders to my knee,

my ribs curving down so that

my hand can cup her hip, tail trailing

along my fingers.

Her purr like an old washing machine, chugging,

steady.

For a moment, her mouth opens around my wrist

indenting my skin delicately with her sharp and tiny teeth.

She is telling me, I could hurt you

but I won’t.

And I respond with my big hand

which spans her whole back

gently squeezing, I know.

And I fall back to sleep with that love

vibrating beside me.

 

 

                        (M Fritchle, 2019)

May my words

May my words be like

the sound of birds bathing in the lake.

Created from the sheer joy of cracking my body

into the world, spread open

the clapping splash

a call to engage,

inviting new desire for the coolness of water.

Let them be surprised

with how loud and vigorous

the sound can be from something so seemingly

fragile,

feather and bone

and life.

 

                        (M Fritchle 2019)