In golden underbrush and old growth, the wood-borer
opens timber to light. The bracken thorns itself against the sky.
By the time I wake to branches falling against the roof,
I’ve forgotten sound: no traffic, no street.
I spent my childhood not wondering why the balsam
grew in rows—the natural state of the world
was neat and meaningful. The old rock wall mossed over,
still bounding out its acreage. Every square hole in the woods
maps a once-foundation. Every round hole remains a well.
In autumn, I prepare for death …