Last November
The heat broke in the night and we woke to our breath
swept the ash from the hearth lit holiday mailers
with a long lighter so logs would catch the fire cracked
brought to mind the desert but outside
trees and grass glistened with rain I spent the day
in the yard in the woods anywhere was warmer
than the house if I kept moving the bad year would go on
into the next one no matter where I was
we pulled up frosted zinnias composted charcoal-green
tomato vines left peppers that still bore bright
orange fruit at night the fire took every fiber of my
attention for hours we neglected our phones
their feeds that wound without end sprouting tendrils
that wound without end it had been a good day
we hung a blanket over the living room door
for as long as we could we stayed there
* * * * *
Tracks
I wore boots with deep treads
on the out-and-back trail
saw my own tracks pointed
the opposite way
She hiked to the woods’ depth
while I neared the shoulder’s
asphalt and chrome
I envied the peaceful hour
she had before her
in which limbs and vines
would stitch her inside a fort
of verdant blankets
A walk in the woods
is a tunnel to childhood
but I never feel more present
than when I’m walking there
my mind like moss yet crisp
In the woods both are true at once
As I approached the car
dead canopy crunched underfoot
In the wet forest she arcs towards
the leaves make no sound
made no sound
will make no sound