Three hundred years after a forest burns,

it grows back fully.

Six days after the flames 
black bears return for berries. 

The restoration 
of the world leaks 
through a broken dam 

and still lichen 

survives on the held
breath of alpine rocks; 

deep in the bushes 
bear cubs feast, 
teeth to tender blue 
planets.

•

---

This poem was published in Christian Courier’s December issue, with an accompanying haiku by the brilliant author Sara de Waal.

I don’t often write poetry towards a specific prompt — in this case, my prompt was Justice + the Magnificat. At a loss for where to start, I took fragmented lines out of Sappho (translated by Anne Carson) and then added my abstract words (justice, hope, restoration, annunciation) and then the brightest imagery of the weekend. It looked something like this:

"dream of black" 
justice, three bear cubs low in the blueberry bushes

"but I expect not to share" 
hope, neon green lichen that listens 

"I would not be like this"
crumbled dam, stones scattered, the restoration of the world leaking and 

"nothing of the blessed one's" 
feast, soft feathered bulk of grouse chest whirring

"but may it happen to me, all"
annunciation, the flowers turned to seed, 
scent of pine needles in wet soil. 

From this I created five variations over the course of three months, tested one out in a workshop with Kelly Grace Thomas (a feedback genius), follow-up writing circles, and fine-tuned the final version with the wonderful Cathy Smith.

Here’s my working theory: we can tell what works in our drafts after enough time has passed to gain some distance. Maybe a month, or even a year. When that time isn’t a luxury, we need dependable people to tell us what they’re hearing. Editing is a gift of condensed time.

I was particularly attached to the line break of “black / justice”. I loved the startling imagery of black bears being a form of justice as they feasted on blueberries. The Magnificat is Mary’s first-century song of celebration that God has acted on behalf of oppressed people. It’s still a startling declaration today: “He has filled the hungry with good things / but has sent the rich away empty.” (Luke 1:53, NIV)

How do you show restorative justice? I thought it had something to do with the break between hunger and feasting. Here’s another, bulkier draft:

Until then, we pray for feasts 

There are as many seeds in a pomegranate
as there are laws in the Torah, they say: 613. 
But how many seeds are in the ripe fig,
and when does a baby inherit a birthmark, 
dark ripening circle of danger
on her solitary path to draw water?
Does a swallow choose its path
in a murmuration, where do we split
into a new future? What 

have we inherited? The dream of 
justice, bear cubs low in the 
blueberry bushes, and still
the restoration of the world
leaks through a broken dam. 

We wait; salmon at the feet of a waterfall 
too powerful to ascend, hope smashing rocks,
the white spray, spiced lamb.  

Three hundred years after a forest burns,
it is restored. Six days after the flames black 
bears come, searching the bushes, 
teeth to tender blue planets, 
and so we dream–lichen 

survives on the held
breath of alpine rocks. 

The question of inheritance was what I wanted to explore in this longer draft: what ideas of justice have we inherited, what prophecies, where are we in the timeline of a forest’s re-growth? I thought the birthmark could de-politicize the “black / justice” line, but my American readers told me they couldn’t read it without associating it immediately with a fight against racism. (Noble and good, but not what this poem meant to do.)

In the final draft, I ended up cutting out all my “abstract” words except for “restoration”. There’s not a shred of Sappho left in it. I love how sparse it is, now: the way it suggests more than it tells. And I know the cut lines will be brewed into the stock for another poem around feasting one day. Nothing is every lost.

How do you approach revision? I’d love to hear.