Photos courtesy of author
Arkansas State Parks
It All Comes Down to Water
~Lake Fort Smith State Park
You are standing in an Ozark oasis,
the park interpreter tells our tiny group
of three strangers. We have walked
twenty yards onto the Ozark Highland Trail
where the air swamps us even in the shade
as we linger, keeping our steps to a minimum
given the excessive heat. Water beads up, drips
from our skin. Even our breath gone cautious.
One man is fascinated by the wild cherry trees,
the other caught up in the fishing.
I am engrossed in geology, these misnamed
mountains. They are, in fact, plateaus, formed
not by the excitement of tectonic plate upheaval,
but the remains of a massive sedimentary plain,
carved into “flat tops” by wind and water,
water still laced beneath the ground,
springing up, running over.
Farther along the trail, we look out
over glistening Lake Fort Smith, three times
created by damming and re-damming Frog Bayou,
flooding the homesteads that clung to the ravine,
their cemeteries disinterred, moved to higher ground,
while water covered the indigenous dead long buried
then fed the pipes for growing urban populations.
We learn of the cardinal shiner, small brilliant fish,
an indicator species that only exists in this region
and signals good water. Our springs and streams
in the park are so pure you can drink from them directly,
the interpreter beams up at us, kneeling beside
a threadbare rivulet running downhill to the shore.
Our hike cut short by caustic heat that burns
a drought throughout the south, we melt
out of the woods and slog up the hill
into the air-conditioned building, where we put
our mouths to the water piped in, gurgling up
out of the lukewarm, metal fountain.
Arkansas State Park
In the Aftermath, Broken Body Bound
~ South Arkansas Arboretum State Park
Consider the azalea’s loose petals,
bursts of promiscuous color
made more vibrant
in this light rain. Here,
drizzle kins to dazzle.
Stand near the neon-green moss
lining the asphalt path,
the tree roots
fracturing the trail. Here,
to creep carries to thrive.
Consider the pollen that collects
on the surface of rivulets,
swirls in pothole eddies –
delicate marbling of gold. Here,
fecund means small, ferocious thing.
Odonata, a Word that Sounds like a Prayer
~Daisy State Park
While the world waits, again,
for my yes, the unexpected
excessive heat in September
drags a sweat-laced shroud
to cover my skin. In defense
I take to the surface of water.
Lake Greeson, brought low
by drought, perseveres
in the power to buoy the bright
red of the kayak on clear water.
I slide mink-slick into shoreline
shade. I cloister. Only the light
breeze and a host of dragonflies
disturb my drifting wayward.
Oh, the whorling wor(l)d
begins on an exhale
that might be disappointment,
might be wonder.
Note from poet: the first line and a half are a borrowing from Molly Spencer’s “Invitatory,” used with her permission. Spencer’s lines are: “a whole world waiting // Again / for my yes”.
Sandy Longhorn is the author of three books of poetry: The Alchemy of My Mortal Form, The Girlhood Book of Prairie Myths, and Blood Almanac. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Beloit Poetry Journal, Fourth River, North American Review, and elsewhere. Longhorn teaches in the Arkansas Writer’s MFA Workshop at the University of Central Arkansas.
