MF DRUMMY

Fly

The creek swells with spring runoff,
headwaters rising beneath the slow melt
of the Indian Peaks above Boulder.
Down in the foothills, tight
 
bunches of jonquils sprout
in a lazy meadow through which
the amber river flows,
black-chinned hummingbirds zizzing
 
round an unfurling aspen stand,
copper cottonwood catkins bent aloft.
Stoneflies and caddis dance
in the bubbling spray
 
while it snakes its way along
the sandstone cliffs, carrying
May to the sea. And in that spot,
its golden surface dimpled by soft rain,
 
I drift with the current
as you cast your smile upon the water,
bits of hackle, bead, and feather
fastened together around a #10 hook.
 
From a dark eddy I rise to the lure,
the quick flash of promise
of what our life together
will steadily become. 

The Spider in the Lilacs

            I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
                        – Mary Oliver

 
In the 1968 edition
of the Rand McNally
Massachusetts road atlas,
the unidentified stream
barely appears
as a purplish gash.
 
On its banks I sat one day,
that year, alone,
crumbled New England
stone wall behind me,
banana-seat bike leaning
against a nearby maple,
fishing rod in hand,
ostensibly there for the trout
but catching only bullheads,
slicing my palm on their sharp spines
until I learned,
from the pain of handling them,
the proper way
to withdraw the hook
and return them
to their flowing home.
 
The stream ran through
the neighboring town,
bucolic and clear compared
to the filthy waterways
of our manufacturing city.
Before I ever heard of Blake,
Wordsworth, or Rachel Carson,
I listened that day
to the water flowing
over rocks, roots, and fallen limbs,
teeming with what seemed to me
as infinite life,
intoxicated by white lilac blossoms,
warmed by a gentle sun,
welcomed by the buzzing of insects
and migrating butterflies,
secure in the love of my parents
and in the basic goodness
of earth and all its creatures,
knowing my place in this world,
astonished by the wonder
of the hands and feet
that belonged to me and which,
 
though much diminished with age,
belong to me still,
like the unfamiliar feel in my grip
of the frightened fish that day,
or the memories I spin
of a golden youth
that every child
deserves to own. 

A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, M F Drummy is a disabled author whose poetry has appeared in dozens of publications, including Allium, Bloodroot, Meetinghouse, Penstricken, and Rattle. They have published two full-length collections of poetry: Perdido (2025, Main Street Rag Press) and Defensible Spaces (2026, Kelsay Books). Originally from Massachusetts, they and their way cool life partner continue to enjoy their retirement in the Colorado Rockies. They can be found at https://www.pw.org/directory/writers/m_f_drummy.