by Judith Terzi
a very, very loose translation of "Le Chêne et le Roseau" by Jean de la Fontaine (1621-1695)
So an oak says to a reed, "No wonder
you hate Mother Nature. A tiny bird's
a tremendous weight for you. Tremendous
weight. If a little breeze ripples a pool,
you have to bow your head. Me, I can
almost touch Mount Everest. Amazing.
Not only can I block the sun's rays, I can
make it through the worst hurricane. Really,
really amazing. For me, that north wind's
just a tiny breeze. People say it's a zephyr.
People say. I think they call it a zephyr.
Terrific wind. Look, if your people would
have been born in my neck of the woods,
you wouldn't suffer so much. Believe me,
my spread could defend you, but your
kind comes from the wet, lowly other side
of the wind's tracks. Nature's unjust
toward you and yours. Very, very unjust."
"Hey, I get where you're coming from," says
the reed. "But get over it. I deal with wind
much easier than you. I bend, I never ever
break. Up until now, you've done ok––gotten by
without breaking your back. But hang on!"
Just then, a fury of a north wind was whipping up
its breath. The oak holds tight. The reed bends.
Le roseau plie. The wind doubles down. So bad
that the oak is uprooted. Oak––with its head nearly
touching the sky, feet digging into the dead.
Author of Museum of Rearranged Objects (Kelsay), as well as of five chapbooks, including Casbah and If You Spot Your Brother Floating By (Kattywompus), Judith Terzi's poems have received Pushcart and Best of the Web and Net nominations and have been read on Radio 3 of the BBC. She holds an M.A. in French Literature and taught high school French for many years as well as English and French at California State University, Los Angeles, and in Algiers, Algeria.