With ducks
on the water,
you wouldn’t drain the lake
through a scupper, or burn it down,
would you?

You wish you could see inside a corner
mailbox to confirm empty

or full. Exposed
tree roots haunt you. A stretch

of new sidewalk slabs guides you
forward. A picnic table in the sand

at Hidden Beach tells no tales.
Ducks swimming in the lake

go the distance. Almost midnight
rocks scattered across a tree lawn

form a secret riprap
in your mind. Wild

asparagus grows out of control
in a ditch. Pink chalk marks

the edge of the moment.
A bird bath is not

a bird bath at all. Another
optical illusion wins.

Pain becomes you.
You become euphoria.

Bumble bees sonicate
a side garden with abandon.

Loyal saints appear
when you least expect them.

A freshly chalked empty
soccer field reminds you of being

a fierce girl. You climb
the park hillside without slipping

or murmuring “why.”

If only we all wanted
to protect Bassett Creek.

flutter past in pairs. She swears
she can smell seaweed
here where there’s no ocean.
She looks for you beneath
Japanese lilac tree branches.
Another hole in a wall
patched & muffled. Trapped
messages—humid &
hushed—become another herding
of ancient sounds
to overwhelm her
direction forward.

The scent of lilacs in front
of your nose as you sit
on a park bench. The flow of

water

spilling down and down
into each of the seven pools.
The morning breeze breathing

slowly across your arms.
The birds you hear
but don’t see. Trees

everywhere. In fact, every
single tree you’ve ever met.
One brood of ducklings following

their mama into the lake.
And a raft of them
already swimming with theirs.

Spotting a pond
through the woods.
A slight bend

in the trail. The high contrast
between leaf and bark
against the sky. Remembering

to pause long enough
to catch and release
all of this.

The jersey that runner wears.
The shoes of another.

A canoe in the rack.
Dandelions everywhere.

The (yellow) jackets
on the backs

of a man and a woman paddling
a kayak in the channel.

Yield

and dead end
signs. Willow tree

vines that drape over
the lake edge. The house

beside the church—
bells mid-chime.

A row of garage doors.
A rabbit in the pocket

park grass (no, that’s tan
fur). The western arch

on the pedestrian bridge
that shakes hands

with its eastern mirror image.
Your equilibrium sometimes.

An octave of shutters adorns
a Mount Curve house.
Seven red charm hybrid peonies
burst open in the Garden
of the Seasons. Six
porch chairs
left on a patio
(two Adirondacks).

A quintet of metal pieces
forms an abstract sculpture
on a lawn that refuses
to declare
“No mow May.”

A quartet of stop signs
stands tall.
A trio of doors.
One monitors

a duet of fire hydrants
on opposite street corners

as they reach toward one another
with a longing that cannot be

erased. A lone leash

attached to a white dog. Or,
a solitary red necked

e-scooter I so want
to tip over. Or,
the MINI Cooper

convertible parked
sideways in front
of my apartment building.
And, ever so rarely,

my equilibrium.

Some will look for life
in a utility hole.

Some will find only futility
buried beneath. A lid

tragically misplaced.
Some will not

know what to do
with such broad shoulders.

How to tilt and shrug

to fit in. Some won’t try
till the others leave and the light

below begins to leak through. Begins
to bathe the street

in amber. Tree resin sighs
in the air. None will notice

how she struggles
to trace the shape of the island

in lilac petals that cover the sidewalk.
How desperate she has become

to prove she does not forget
during the times between.

And how her hand shakes
from the shadowy burden.

A face almost always hidden.
One day someone will show her

how to hold a one-way ticket
tightly enough to keep it

from blowing away
on a windy night crossing.

If only you could
reclaim these bricks
before they disintegrate. If

only you could rescue
the salt from your spit
before its echo

of shapes dissolves
into the shadows
of oaks. If only you could

dodge the edges. If
the first egret you see
this season chases

a red-winged blackbird
off the fishing pier.
If a gentle morning breeze

chases pink
lilac petals
to the ground. Green

chases away
the identity of trees, and if
my words chase you.

It comes after
she smells the prairie’s late
winter breath
before she opens her eyes.

It comes after being
so wound up
she forgets
to check the wound.

It comes after invisible
healing overnight
that coincides with
banging from the apartment

above, moaning
next door. A wild animal
climbs up
the drain pipe.

It comes after the dancing
gets out of hand.
And the driver has taken
the long way home.

It comes at the moment
the backseat
ruminator (that’s me)
notices how straight

and narrow

and true
the trail looks
from here
come spring.

A new incline on an old route
leads east as a western wind
blows through the tops
of birches. Bottom feeders stir
in a creek. Mud dries
in a wetland nearby. As far
as she is concerned, the day
holds only carefree moments
dropping everywhere. Nowhere
left to hide from the bounty.