i never can remember what comes after
the path into the pines, whether
the trail loops back to its beginning
or winds even deeper into the woods.

a life incredible, vivid, excellent.
i never can remember what comes after
the path into the pines, whether
the trail loops back to its beginning
or winds even deeper into the woods.
the bees are at the zinnias,
fuzzy bodies buzzing
among pink-freckled petals
the old osage orange hedge
still marches perpendicular to the road
marking the boundary line of a farmstead
long since swallowed up by atomic age homes.
in winter the trees
show their secrets
the roses are sleeping
beneath the blanket of leaves the wind
has knitted and ripped from the trees.
how You bend the universe
to meet me where i least expect it —
these leaves had roots once.
this sheaf was a forest
(or a tree)
and birds nested
in its branches,
squirrels cannoned
from limb to limb
with death-defying grace.
the evening sun set the oak leaves glowing
like bronze against the still-blue sky,
and i wished i could show you
how beautiful it was, could explain
why i wished i could show you.
the young grass stands slight
and fragile against the cold.
all day long
the wind has been
scouring the trees;
now the lawn is thick
with bronzed leaves of oak,
tender yellow of maple,
wild red and orange
and byzantium of gum.