by Deborah H. Doolittle
I am reading my roots
like grandma’s tea leaves,
having sipped that bitter
brew, having tipped the cup
for likenesses to ogham
or runes or any glyphs
gleaned from any alef-
bets I’m acquainted with.
I’m tracing the branches—
those wand willows, blackthorns,
witch hazels—a coppice
of Celtic knots that blot
out easy translation,
which leaves me with the leaves.
Green for most of the year,
turned to pages for crones
like me, who in ages
past, did not need to read.
Deborah H. Doolittle, having lived in lots of different places, now calls North Carolina home. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of Floribunda and three chapbooks, No Crazy Notions, That Echo, and Bogbound. Some of her poems have recently appeared (or will soon appear) in Cloudbank, Comstock Review, Kakalak, Plant-Human Quarterly, Ravensperch, Slant, The Stand, and in audio format on The Writer’s Almanac. The creative editor of Brillig: a micro lit mag, she shares a home with her husband, six housecats, and a backyard full of birds.
Hawaii Pacific Review 