The Valley of the Cat-tails

My valley is a woman unconsoled.
Her bluffs are amethyst, color of grief,
Her tamarack swamps are sad.
There was no dark tale that she was not told,
There is no sorrow that she has not had.
She has no mood of mirth, however brief.

Too long I praised her dolors in the words
Of the dark ones, her trees,
And of the whippoorwills, her sacred birds.
Her tragedy is more intense than these.

The reeds that lift from every marsh and pond
More plainly speak of her spirit's poverty;
Here should the waters dance, or flowers be.

Reeds are true symbols of so weak a mother
Who from the primer of her own dark fears
Teaches her young the alphabet of tears
As if caroling earth possessed no other.

Copyright permission to publish has been given by the
Carmel of the Mother of God, Pewaukee Wisconsin. All rights reserved.

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