Chlorophyll
I am called to growing things,
blades of chlorophyll
bending in winter sun,
dandelion globes
dotting my field-lawn.
Acacia trees holler
in dusty yellow splendor,
egg me on to join their fun
frolicking in fog along Highway 1.
Brussel sprout fields salute me
in rows planted with scientific precision.
They whisper the secrets of their ancestors
through their gray-green leaves.
Watsonville’s byways host hedges
of ceanothus and toyon
that sing me songs of
psychedelic farmers
who prophesied a world of compost
and rainbow salads
of nasturtium and kale.
Stems, roots, and leaves
take hold of my ankles,
envelop my waist,
pull me down into the soil,
a microcosm of connectivity,
nematodes, bacteria, mycorrhizae,
an un-understood world
hidden below the roar
of cargo trucks and commuters
rumbling south
toward Monterey.
Kelp
Off the shore from
Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant,
they cut the kelp like grass,
whirling blades and conveyors
rigged up on a boat,
clipping thick ropes of sea forest.
If they don’t mow,
kelp clogs the inlets,
keeping sea water from cooling
the hot-headed reactor.
National security depends
on well-manicured kelp.
I saw an egret hunt
out beyond the breaking of waves,
standing straight legged, head slightly cocked,
waiting for something succulent
in the inhale and exhale of the sea─
standing on a canopy of kelp
not yet scythed by mower blades.
Farther up the coast,
in Monterey Bay,
no mower clips the seaweed,
kelp grows knotty,
arching unruly
through the reaches of waves.
Sea otters wrap themselves
in the algae’s stripes and blades,
floating asleep secure
from drift and currents’ pull.
Here, Macrocystis pyrifera
tangles at the kiss of ocean and air,
making land for an egret to hunt
on the undulating sea.
M. J. Donovan’s poetry has appeared in the Porter Gulch Review and Catamaran Literary Reader. She lives and works within walking distance of the Monterey Bay.
I am called to growing things,
blades of chlorophyll
bending in winter sun,
dandelion globes
dotting my field-lawn.
Acacia trees holler
in dusty yellow splendor,
egg me on to join their fun
frolicking in fog along Highway 1.
Brussel sprout fields salute me
in rows planted with scientific precision.
They whisper the secrets of their ancestors
through their gray-green leaves.
Watsonville’s byways host hedges
of ceanothus and toyon
that sing me songs of
psychedelic farmers
who prophesied a world of compost
and rainbow salads
of nasturtium and kale.
Stems, roots, and leaves
take hold of my ankles,
envelop my waist,
pull me down into the soil,
a microcosm of connectivity,
nematodes, bacteria, mycorrhizae,
an un-understood world
hidden below the roar
of cargo trucks and commuters
rumbling south
toward Monterey.
Kelp
Off the shore from
Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant,
they cut the kelp like grass,
whirling blades and conveyors
rigged up on a boat,
clipping thick ropes of sea forest.
If they don’t mow,
kelp clogs the inlets,
keeping sea water from cooling
the hot-headed reactor.
National security depends
on well-manicured kelp.
I saw an egret hunt
out beyond the breaking of waves,
standing straight legged, head slightly cocked,
waiting for something succulent
in the inhale and exhale of the sea─
standing on a canopy of kelp
not yet scythed by mower blades.
Farther up the coast,
in Monterey Bay,
no mower clips the seaweed,
kelp grows knotty,
arching unruly
through the reaches of waves.
Sea otters wrap themselves
in the algae’s stripes and blades,
floating asleep secure
from drift and currents’ pull.
Here, Macrocystis pyrifera
tangles at the kiss of ocean and air,
making land for an egret to hunt
on the undulating sea.
M. J. Donovan’s poetry has appeared in the Porter Gulch Review and Catamaran Literary Reader. She lives and works within walking distance of the Monterey Bay.
