o lichenous maple!
route deeper, cling harder
to the slick clay with each spring
runoff. thick ropes wasted
with knots of ice, pools
splitting with each heave
and thaw to look like scarred
mouths. I think the moss,
soft underfoot and sanctifying
the bends of your twisted
roots, pities you.
bare treed peninsula,
do trilliums sleep
beneath your blankets?
do their petals,
sacredly numbered
and state-protected,
await thirty-three
consecutive days
of thirty-three degrees
to stretch their stamens,
hunger for the early bees,
the pregnant pistil,
and do they blush
pink or yellow?
shall I return in summer’s squallor
to find dusky canes of plum
bending to the muddy bed
of possum and coon tracks, deer-scars
from the winter hidden
behind hoary leaves?
will the stream slake
the ripening thirst
of berries, or will the clusters
bear more seed than fruit?
Originally published in Bear River Review, 2013