is vertical:
garden, pond, uphill
pasture, run-in shed.
Through pines, Pumpkin Ridge.
Two switchbacks down
church spire, spit of town.
Where I climb I inspect
the peas, cadets erect
in lime-capped rows,
hear hammer blows
as pileateds peck
the rot of shagbark hickories
enlarging last
year's pterodactyl nests.
Granite erratics
humped like bears
dot the outermost pasture
where in tall grass
clots of ovoid scat
butternut-size, milky brown
announce our halfgrown
moose padded past
into the forest
to nibble beech tree sprouts.
Wake-robin trillium
in dapple-shade. Violets,
landlocked seas I swim in.
I used to pick bouquets
for her, framed them
with leaves. Schmutzige
she said, holding me close
to scrub my streaky face.
Almost from here I touch
my mother's death.
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| From Where I Live by Maxine Kumin. Copyright © 2010 by Maxine Kumin. Used by permission of W. W. Norton. |
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