How the Land Forgets
A narrow muddy creek.
Beyond the creek
a new housing lot.
Beyond the new housing lot
a small stand of wood
where a large woodland once spread all the way
to the highway.
Beyond the highway a farm
clings to fifty acres
but not much thrives and much is failing
until you get to the only hill for miles around here,
and that’s where I sometimes go, in the snow
when all the displacement and sully are covered.
Occasionally, after a heedless span - say
one fresh morning when the sun is up
shining like the first day of creation
and the snow sparkles like blue diamonds
while the bright air runs like a mountain stream,
then for a short while, you forget the muddy boots
that kicked over the native and natural.
You throw your head back
and imagine how it was
before all the sweetness
got pushed away
into small put-aside pockets
of amnesia.
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