Recorded on site and in one take on the banks of the Provo River, May 2025.
Today’s poem is by Susan Marsh who is in her own words a “writer, poet, artist” based in Wyoming. That career description is one I aspire to, though, of course I’d choose Utah. The poem was published in 2022.
Text of poem
“One Patch of Quilt” by Susan Marsh
We know about the way they treat the chickens But on a budget, buy the cheaper eggs. One man says wolves are meant for shooting, Another lives with a wolf named Cucumber. At the sight of a snake my mother grabbed the hoe. I got there first, carried it to the woods and let it go. Rescued from a backhoe's jaw, a rubber boa Spent the winter eating crickets in a terrarium Until it was warm enough to be set free. The friend who kept it became an expert In the ways of rubber boas, small shy snakes Most of us have never seen. It all comes down to empathy One patch of quilt acknowledging the other For we lie together with stitches tight, The only escape an irreversible rending of the fabric.
from The Earth Has Been Too Generous (Finishing Line Press, 2022)
I’m fascinated by the idea of interspecies connectedness. I love stories about people working to give rights to trees and rivers, even though it complicates my own interaction with them. In some respects, having empathy for the deer that sneaks down from the foothills at night to snack on suburban gardens is easy: they’re hungry and we just put the food out there in the open. Sometimes it’s harder for me to generate empathy with some of my fellow humans (sidelong glance at the driver of the Cybertruck in the parking lot, Mike Lee, RFK Jr., the person who leaves his empty McDonald’s wrappers on the picnic table and just leaves, any billionaire ever). Perhaps there is a pathway from generating empathy with the natural world and increasing my empathy with my fellow humans.
Of course, the route of natural-world-empathy goes through stewardship. I’m trying to learn more about how it all works together, the natural world.
And I’m looking at the dead tree right next to me, all its bark pulled off and unable to move the liquid from the river right there just twelve inches away to its leaves. Or to where its leaves used to be. That tree is dead, but it’s surrounded by healthy, living trees. The ecosystem in this stretch of river seems healthy. It’s thriving.
On a hike in Zion NP a couple of weeks ago, I had long stretches with no human interaction. I was by myself, and I found myself talking to the plants. When I saw one whose name I knew, I’d say hello as I passed. I’d say, “howdy there, firecracker penstemon. Lookin’ good!” I’d brush the juniper branches in a friendly, nice-to-see-you way. And I know I’m absurd. I’d shut up and keep my hands to myself when I would pass a person going the opposite direction, but so long as I was alone, I pretended that I was at a party, and greeting the people I knew.
Was this generating empathy or insanity? Kate laughed when I told her about it. Maybe it’s both?
Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this poem and some brief analysis. Marsh says that we are like squares of quilt; can you think of a different metaphor that describes how we relate to others (people or animals)? If you’ve got one, write it down: you’ve got a poem! You can share it with me, if you’d like. I’d love to see them.
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