This post was originally written for The Darien News in celebration of National Poetry Month. It is also published on my Substack am:mo.wri.fo. I’ll update Writerly Thoughts often, but may not email all posts to you to avoid duplicates. If you are interested in receiving my writing straight to your inbox, hop over to Substack and subscribe.

There was a field she passed by often. It was wide and empty, a yawning clearing in the midst of dense forests, concrete high-rises, and swarms of gnats. It was flat and mostly green, though barely, as if the grass couldn’t bring itself to grow too far from the ground. The wildflowers that grew there were tiny specks of white and clover tinged with pink that during the springtime gave rise to a pungent sweet smell.

It was an innocent enough space, contained, as I said, by its natural and artificial bounds. And empty, like I said, of prickers or gnarled roots or creeping itching leaves. Many of its passers-by even considered it beautiful, because the sunshine fell unhindered, as did the rain. An oak could grow to a great height in that field, they said, if only the acorn could find its way to the middle.

How brave that acorn would have to be, she thought every time she passed by, to grow into wrinkled trunk and robust limbs and unruly knots and twigs bending under new buds and fragile resurrection ferns brown with drought—to grow knowing all would be on display in this unforgivingly barren field. How brave, she thought, and how audacious.

The thought of it made her tremble. And, like acorns, thoughts have a habit of taking root and growing into something powerful.

There came a day that dawned in mist. Droplets fell gently on the passers-by, hiding under their umbrellas in anticipation of heavier rain. She’d forgotten her umbrella, or maybe she’d never had one, and so she darted between empty pieces of wet sky and graying concrete. She rounded the field, wondering if the wildflowers marveled at or cowered under the darkening expanse above them.

It began with a droplet falling heavy on her shoulder, like a tap for her attention from someone known but unseen. And then another, this time nestling itself into her hair and sliding into her ear and causing her pause. Many passers-by spoke of rain in this way, an inconvenient muse. She’ll dance the sense right out of your head, they said, with her siren songs drawing you to places where colds abound.

How wonderful, she thought, standing there on the edge of this field she so often passed by, the dampening toe of her sneaker venturing outward. How wonderful it must be to climb upward through the mud, believe in the audacity of a seed in season, breathe waterfalls without drowning, turn anchors on their heads and catch a cloud. How wonderful, she thought, and how wild.

The thought of it made her tremble. And, like rain, thoughts have a habit of coalescing into torrents and so, trembling, she fell away from the edge and into the storm. Sinking but not stuck, feet as a drum pounding rhythms with the rain, she raced to the middle of the field. She stretched her arms up and said to the grasses, the wildflowers, the gnats, the high-rises, the passers-by who paused to raise their eyebrows: watch closely, she said.

This is what it is to become an oak.

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Ekphrasis is a literary term, used loosely to describe a piece of art (written or visual) that is inspired by another piece of artwork. It often involves one medium illustrating, evoking, or delving into the essence of another medium. I like to think of ekphrasis as a dialogue, a conversation between two artists for the sake of new revelation, for themselves and the viewer.

Though the concept of ekphrasis is traced to Plato’s Republic, I would say we’ve been ekphrastic long before we’ve had a name for it (and we certainly don’t need a Greek label to validate our experiences). When a musician puts her hands to a drum, the dancer interprets her rhythms through his own feet on the ground. He gives them new life and meaning for the viewer. When a farmer brings the produce of his field to a table, the chef reimagines the ingredients for the diner, who then revels in their own flavorful experience (and reconstitutes it for their foodie followers on Instagram). These are very generous interpretations of ekphrasis, but I’d say the creativity of them doesn’t make them any less true.

The above short narrative is a more traditional ekphrastic response to two poems, “Triumph Reigns in the Storm” and “When the Clock Strikes Bloom,” by Christian Gail. Her 2023 book From This Girl, A Woman Grew uses poetry to “explore what it means to be a woman…by acknowledging and embracing everything that comes with being a woman.” Christian is a McIntosh native and a dear friend. I encourage you to celebrate National Poetry Month and support a McIntosh poet by hopping over to Amazon and purchasing her book. It is an edifying read, both as a single gulp and as many sips spread over many days. There are digital versions available, as well as hard copies—personally, I always love to feel the weight of paper and binding and ink in my hands.