Poem: "Arrowwood" by Pamela Harrison
The bare branches of this viburnum
grow so straight the Abenaki Indians
cut them for arrows. Bunches of blue
berries bead like old blood at the ends
of stems gone inexplicably pink.
All the colors of autumn squeeze down
in the snow to just these few: mauve canes
of blackberry, parchment curl of dry beech,
red hips of the rambling rose. You have to
look hard to see them, look
hard to see what breathes
in all this cold.
Pamela Harrison reads "Arrowwood"