POETRY BY BRIAN CORDELL

This Was Meant to Be a Poem about a Bear

But lately, the bear, or rather, the thought

of the bear, the image of its ruffled fur, its large

claws pulling at brambles for berries, escapes

me. After all, in a hundred years, maybe two,

there may be no bears left. To read a poem

seems as inconsequential as writing: no forest,

no bear; no bear, no poem. But what should I do

instead? Play dead myself, ignore it and hope

the thought goes away, endeavor to plant

a thousand trees, or start a pollinator garden

in my yard? I spend hours rolling over and over,

intense internal debate: biodegradable garbage

bags or post-consumer recycled plastic, which is still

plastic, and still will fill the ocean, and still I try

to convince myself every small act makes

a difference, but I hesitate, hibernate, unfurl a Hefty

into the can. And then I’m back to thinking,

in the interim, about poems and bears, and whether

writing any poem is at all worth it, and maybe it is; maybe

this poem will stand as testament to the majesty

of nature, as amber to the image of the black bear, back

scratch against the bark of a long white pine, asleep

among leaves in afternoon heat; cubs, nearby, clumsy,

fall over one another, content, playful,

as if they know what I am reaching for.