Poetry by Ellen Austin-Li

Cindy Shebley CC




Hawthorn

                Hawthorn, the ogham letter H, huathe. The Hawthorn or Whitethorn tree is known as a
                Fairy Tree, and is still considered to be a gateway between this world and the Otherworld, the
                realm of the Sidhe. - Ogham.academy

Must have grown from a bird-
dropped seed, the gnarled and scrubby
bush with two-inch-long thorns 
that appeared last spring near my peonies. 
Thwarted hands stabbed each time I grabbed 
branches to cut it back. Blood sprung. Could be 
native to Ohio, depending on the variety. I muse 
as I pace the labyrinth in Kentucky. In the Cedars
of Peace silent retreat area, the mulch 
beneath my feet is shredded cedar bark.
November. I bend to the dark-spotted green
leaves, a three-tongued cluster, woodland 
Winter Orchid, Tipularia Discolor, or Cranefly 
Orchid. Woodpeckers percuss
in the distance, echo in silence. Everything
is connected. Ancient Celts named the hawthorn 
the faery tree—it’s said misfortune comes 
to those who chop it down. Another psychic
protector, bringer of spiritual growth and love,
say the ancients. Hawthorn growing near my side
door back home. With each step closer 
to the center, the path moves farther away. 
Eventually, I will reach the heart. The unseen 
mirror of the seen.

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The Call of the Wild

I’m standing atop the picnic table
in the yard at Nana’s farm, safe 
from my cousins’ dog. My brothers and sisters floating 
around, another Sunday like every other. The dog may be 
a wolf that will tear me apart if I get on the grass.
Baby-blue sky, late summer. I am sleeveless 
and in shorts. My cousins and siblings
laugh and tease, but cousin Billy kindly reassures 
that his German Shepherd will not hurt
me. I am less than ten and have been reading 
Jack London’s The Call of the Wild. I am 
consumed by wolves. The air reeks of cow manure,
to which my mother always declares: fresh air.
The white clapboard farmhouse is to my right, the main
barn behind us. I hear cows mooing from the far
pasture, and nearby corn rustling when the wind 
picks up. Cousin Danny offers to take us to the barn 
to swing from the hayloft. I follow the gang 
as soon as the dog trots away. Nana’s collie, Fuzzy, 
doesn’t terrorize me like Spitz does. I can’t recall 
the German Shepherd’s name, but “Spitz” pops 
into my brain. It’s the way his eyes drill into mine 
when I look at him. I jump down and run 
into the barn, eyes adjusting to the low light 
after coming inside from the sun. The sharp tang of dry 
hay tickles my nose. Dust motes float 
in the stripe of sunlight from the cracked-open barn 
door. Rectangular haystacks surround the ground 
floor, a mound of unbound straw in the center. A rope 
hangs from the rafters, close to the loft’s ladder. 
We take turns climbing, holding the rope swing, 
letting go, howling into the dark. We are
a regular pack of wolves.

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Ellen Austin-Li's collection, Incidental Pollen, is the runner-up to Madville Publishing’s Arthur Smith Poetry Prize. Finishing Line Press published chapbooks  Firefly and Lockdown: Scenes from Early in the Pandemic. Ellen is a Best of the Net & Pushcart nominee, whose work appears in SWIMM, Salamander, The Maine Review, Lily Poetry Review, One Art, and more. SAFTA supported her work. She holds an MFA from the Solstice program. Ellen hosts Poetry at Artifact in Cincinnati, where she lives.  



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