Lousewort and Saxifrage - May 13 2022

 

Lousewort and Saxifrage

May 13 2022

When the road washed out

and we felt cut-off from the world,

I realized how fine the thread

on which we depend

is already stretched past normal.

Which, I know, is a loaded word;

as if how things are

is how they've always been;

as if we weren't already

at the mercy of random events.

And how, over time

complexity

has incrementally increased

in a civilized world

as connected and specialized as ours.

So a butterfly wing,

flapping gently

in some far-off tropical jungle

dense

with succulent green foliage,

or a lost alpine valley

amidst the sedges, orbs, and grasses

lousewort, vetch, and saxifrage,

cascades down to this;

a river

rushing over the asphalt

on a two-lane country road.

Until the soil liquifies

and the pavement caves

and jagged pieces of asphalt

sail downstream,

where they soon sink

into soft churned-up mud.

The wash-out

invisible under the water

so the first few cars don't stop,

tipped on their sides, and swamped

in the cold turbid run-off.

I took the long way around.

A matter of time, I imagine

until that route, too is impassable

and we're stranded for good.

Interdependent and complex systems make our civilization so much more vulnerable than it appears. Most recently, a confluence of events has sorely tested it: climate change, the Covid pandemic, Russia's war on Ukraine, and an increasingly polarized style of politics. Among other stressors.

Climate change and high water wash out the road. But inflation, caused by shortages from the pandemic and the war, means there is no money to repair it. And anyway, there's not enough diesel for the heavy machinery, no asphalt (also made from crude oil, and multiple steps upstream from the finished product) to replace the pavement. Not to mention that water is unstoppable, especially when there's no place to put it. We aren't Biblical prophets who can part the sea.

A scenario that, for now, is hypothetical. Because I have no doubt it will get fixed. Eventually. But next time, or the time after next . . .?

Chaos theory, represented as the butterfly flapping its wings, reflects this: small disruptions, amplified; a vast disproportion between cause and effect. Hence “chaos”: impossible to predict.

I can never resist the chance to take a break in a serious poem like this and play with words. When I thought of a flower-filled alpine field (such a jarring and evocative contrast with jungle) I immediately googled, looking for names. Most of which were delightful, and so I allowed myself to indulge in a short tangent. Two things I seek in a title are something to draw a reader in, and something that misdirects. I think this one does both. One thing I try not to do is steal my own thunder: that is, lift a great line from the poem, and tip my hand (sorry, mixed metaphor!) Which this one also does. On the other hand, lifting it gives me two kicks at the can, a double whammy.

The ending – stranded for good – contains a very intentional irony. The meaning that first comes to mind is about time: stranded indefinitely, maybe forever. But there is also the other meaning of good, and this raises the question of whether a simpler more self-sufficient life -- cut-off from civilization in a rural enclave -- might actually be a better choice than life in our complex interdependent consumer society of mindless abundance and instant gratification. Which one qualifies as good?