I don’t often have the chance to monitor my poem-elfings once they’re up. I do wonder what happens to the poems I’ve left behind, but I don’t pursue my curiosity. It’s the fate of former boyfriends in the pre-Facebook age. They may have grown bald, fat and alcoholic, but we used to be able imagine them gleaming and fresh, standing at the door with a prom corsage.
But my last post I’m tracking like a stalker because I often walk past where I left it. I had taped Ruth Stone’s “Interim” to a chopped-off log, and knowing that tape doesn’t adhere to natural objects as well as to man-made surfaces, I expected the poem to fall off. I didn’t expect to find it a week later, resting in a pile of dead leaves.
I poked a twig from a bush through the poem and walked on.
A few days later I found the poem had jumped ship again. Shy, perhaps. Doesn’t like the spotlight.
Again I re-attached it. And I noticed how quickly spring has come. I hope that the buds on this bush will keep the poem in place, possibly grow around it, and the poem will last all spring and summer. Or better, someone will like it and take it home.