Life Isn’t Always Green

I’ve left Friendly Drive,
the car parked by the elevator.
My feet seek steps of solitude
and organic green life.

Traffic sound follows me, buzzing
through Kettle Moraine rocky ups
and downs like simmering anxious
thoughts. The noise, the humanness

I can’t escape. Looking for beauty
I see brown, twisted, broken trunks—
their struggle to climb ended.
Trail moves from thinning trees to town.

Walking to Culvers, hope of wildness
dissolves like lemon ice down
my throat, but reemerges
in the park as city sounds

dissipate in unbroken brown water
around the feet of Ridge Run hills
where the path shifts, a result
of collective rerouting

around a wind-weeded branch
returned to feed the forest floor.
My thoughts settle on white ruffles
over brown decay—the fungi-coated limb

holding beginnings
………….and endings intermingled
……………………..gently forcing
………….this new path.

Unruly

I like to pee in the woods
off the edge of the trail,
hidden behind a tree
…………like a wild thing

squat low and hear
spatter on dry leaves,
watering the forest floor
…………part of the hydrologic cycle

look around at tiny trees
reaching for the light,
green growing things
…………whose names I want to know

listen for footsteps and
savor the thought of doing
something as old as humans
…………harmless, yet illegal

Detachment

Morning-damp dirt trail
twists through green sumac
tipped orange-red.

Through the quiet, I hear
the sludge of worries I carry.
My steps slow through a thick

muck of fabricated responsibility—
the need to fix someone else
to cover my own pain.

In the thought rut of what I can’t
change, I don’t see the branch
fallen across the path.

A cardinal fires out—
pew, pew, pew…be here now!
I exhale, focus my eyes, observe

cumulous clouds
over a goldenrod field splashed
with purple aster. I listen

aspen leaves clatter,
a thousand tiny hands
clapping.

Poemwalking

I forget about the half-written story,
…………the hopeful to-do list on my calendar,
……………………how long the backyard grass has grown,
………………………………the unwashed dishes…

and follow curiosity down the curve
…………of a hill, eager to discover what’s around the bend—
……………………the shiver of aspen or thick pine-shade?
………………………………I scratch my fingertips on goldenrod lace,

turn to see if the skittering squirrel is red, grey, or black,
…………ponder the marsh, the still stench of purification,
……………………listen to crows call each other home,
………………………………wait for the swallowtail to pause his thirst for nectar.

I look for the spaces of overlap—
…………where water meets land,
……………………when hills stretch out to plain,
………………………………how sunshine turns to shade

and see my thoughts change
…………with the terrain, as I scribble
……………………in my notebook to catch
………………………………the poem of my walk, to reflect
…………………………………………back on another day.

Notes

“Life Isn’t Always Green” was first published in Portage Magazine.

“Poemwalking” was first published in Bramble Lit Mag.