I didn’t make it
all the way
to the woods
before the silvery stretch
of quiet highway
claimed me,
a sentimental victim,
creeping forward
and I collapsed
against the wheel
in tears,
bent before the open sky.

A moment
of freedom
overwhelmed.

Pulling over,
I saw the small Amish school
just ahead,
with the dozen or so pairs
of shoes lined up outside
on a shelf.
The tears rolled
as quietly as the years
as I sat recalling
lonely playgrounds,
time lost to hope,
and answers I found only in books.

Nostalgia
dismissed
in the forgotten.

Pulling up to the lake
to begin my walk,
geese welcomed me,
their curses and squawks
just like family.
My tree,
though broken,
still shivered a greeting
and tears welled again,
as I found my step
more sure in the woods
than anywhere else.

From across the lake,
geese gifted me with
reprimands
and screams of nonsense,
my love language.

Stepping
from behind
the paper birch
with arms full
of mangled verse
to be planted.

In a conversation
without faces,
you won’t know when
I’m imagining my back with no skin,
sort of surrendering
to airborne promises
like those of
the mockingbird
or nuclear exhaust.

They said a flotilla
of satellites
will be observing
every nuance
of happenings below.

No more
surprise parties
or stealth attacks,
no mysteries
of spring meadows
or mourning
of winter bones.

Reason upsets
need for sentiment;
affection is
the next myth
scheduled
to fall to progress.