Wooded paths go nowhere,
take their time;
maples sag under their summer weight.
My father’s roses are long gone,
the little island in the lake worn away.
The bath houses still have
their strange damp smell,
We search for crabapple trees,
the ones good for climbing,
little tart fruit pucker your tongue,
fill pockets for later.
Gentle grasses toss heads,
meadows green up after morning’s rain.
We follow the old washboard road;
gulleys brim over,
oxbows laze through the fields,
river memories gone to swamp.
Snakes make their smaller curves,
insects hive and swarm.
The lake shines in the sun-sparkled afternoon.
We climb slowly,
the air becomes lighter, the sky a different color,
purple vetch and Indian paint brush
brilliant and heavy with the past.
