Jonquils bloom in my manicured,
mulched yard. Nearby, the woods
still exhale winter,
bare and brown in the morning sun,
nothing green but moss,
leftover sprigs of grass,
the living and the dead
still one.

Leafless vines
surround us. Some hold
half-fallen trees in a tangled
aerial embrace,
others wait like snares

trees cause us to veer
from the familiar track.
An upturned trunk's
vestigial roots spread
like a large pelvic bone.
Another's are hind feet
ready to spring toward us.
A chain-sawed
hollow log is a cannon's
bore aimed our way.

When I look down the hill, I see
the path where I will be,
heading in the opposite
direction, on a different plane.
I look up,
see a hint of where I have been.
Both are familiar and foreign.

A fallen tree, caught
in the fork of another,
becomes my rudder.

Page 2 of 2