Jeffrey Warzecha
Looking for Frost’s Woodpile

And when I think I may have found
the spot, I stop; and among wrenched
Undergrowth, spoiled stumps,
Whole felled trees left to rot
Beside the river—I find no neat pile,
But step back instead to watch the trail
Coil and fill in behind me, the briars
spindle over the path, ruts repack
With lush soil—a whole sudden
Breathing that rises up to reclaim.

 

 

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