Waterwitching
(For Papa)
Tracy
M. Rogers
His
withered hands trembled
held the red maple limb
in their frail grasp
They
clasped and reclasped
the rough bark
making his swollen knuckles white
They
came to him
because they knew
he had the gift
No
one could explain
that magical divining
of the earth's rigid layers
Not
even he could understand
the vibrations, the melody
that called to him from beneath his feet
*****
He
had been born
in the sweltering heat
of late June 1916
A
pale, almost sallow baby
with wavy black hair
and eyes the color of smoked almonds
But,
in his laughter, his tears,
in the grasp of his warm palm
lay the answers to ancient mysteries
In
the measured rhythm
of his too-kind heart
lay the earth's febrile cadence
Only
he, among all of his siblings,
heard the water's ever-elusive psalm
whispering to him from beneath the red clay
*****
And,
so they came for him
first, in wagons and on horseback,
then in sputtering Fords and Chevrolets
Kicking
up red dust
in the War Eagle valley
that had once been lush and green
Searching
for the tiniest river
beneath the earth's surface
to water their horses and their children
And
he would go readily
his divining stick in hand
along the red clay roads over the Ozarks
And
search well into the night
listening to the earth gasp and sigh
until it finally revealed the secrets hidden in its depths
*
Tracy
M. Rogers is the editor and creator of The Aurora Review:
An Eclectic Literary and Cultural Magazine. Her poetry can
be found in The Poetry Kit, Prism, and Mastodon
Dentist, as well as in upcoming issues of Poesia, The
Wandering Hermit Review, and The Pen. She is also an
avid photographer whose photos have been published in Spire,
The New Yinzer, and Sien und Werden.
©
Tracy M. Rogers