Leaving Footprints    edit 1.1(duke, milo)

Our hilly roads are named for trees and groves,
they skirt the shady coves and wind beneath
an old-growth canopy of woven boughs.
The stately Hickories and Northern Oaks 
lay down a nutty carpet every fall.
With trunks so wide my arms can’t reach around 
their girth, they stretch their massive branches towards
the gleaming lake to drink reflected light;        
but when they threaten rooftops from above
they're chainsawed down, becoming firewood.

The Yellow Poplars (nicknamed tulip trees)
bear springtime flowers large as tangerines
with golden petals orange at their base;
they hang above our heads, not visible  
until dislodged, descending fully formed.
Attached by hollow stems to muddy roots,
proliferating lily pads provide
a stage for turtles, frogs and dragonflies.
Leaves multiply, encouraged by the gush
of runoff drained from winter-salted roads,
the heralds of the water weeds to come.

To grow our veggies dockside's ill-advised, 
the poisoned planks will leach preservatives 
that taint surrounding soil. It’s fine to plant
some alliums for springtime color’s sake, 
some cheerful daffodils and hyacinths 
but edibles would drink up arsenic.
We navigate the still-clear spring-fed lake 
and ask each other: “Wonder where the rich
folk are today?” and revel in our luck.


Heavy Footprint Stomp

To undertake a garden dockside's ill-
advised, the poisoned planks are bound to leach
preservatives that taint surrounding soil.
The alliums for April’s flowers' sake,
the daffodils and hyacinths are fine
but vegetables would drink up arsenic.
Attached by hollow stems to muddy roots
proliferating lily pads provide
a stage for turtles, frogs and dragonflies;
they multiply encouraged by the gush
of runoff drained from winter salted roads,
the heralds of the choking weeds to come.

Our hilly roads are named for trees and groves,
for coves and inlets nestled under old-
growth canopies, the interlocking boughs
suspended over cabins built below.
The yellow poplars (nicknamed tulip trees)
bear springtime flowers large as tangerines
with golden petals orange at their base,
the blooms on branches high above our view
until dislodged by squirrels, landing fully formed.
Their trunks are wider than my arms can reach
around, two hundred year old hickories
and oaks dispense their bounty every fall.
They lean their limbs out towards the sparkling lake
attempting to absorb reflected sun
but when they threaten rooftops underneath
they're chainsawed down, transformed to firewood.

We navigate the still clear spring-fed lake
and ask each other: Wonder where the rich
folk are today; we know our luck is prime
but carve our precious assets to our whims
and chip away at what we value most.