Trespassing

Your mind wants to say

a logging road is where the dead walked,

winch and flatbed for a prosthesis,

good redwood makes good fencing

for all those good neighbors.

It’s the spray of starflowers

that ruins everything. Salal braiding edges

grows inward, as you walk deeper.

Taste of salmonberry, vulnerable sweetness

of thimbleberry shock your mouth.

Shoots and seedlings with their

grand new schemes, resettle, climbing

stump to sky. See how time distilled

is shade? Ivy, feral grasses, tan oaks may

be unwanted, but by whom? The three petals

of a late trillium, a pool of white light 

blooming in graveled mud, say

this path is sacred too.

This article appears in Waiting for Tish Non.