The places we save in our mind—
or perhaps branded with emotion
pulled into a landscape and left
for another: my first grandfather
oak, wide arms outstretched, round
dark boulders piled at his feet, burrows
for squirrels beneath his roots, a Red
Tail roost. He seemed to see all things,
season after season. I visited him often
when I was a boy exploring wild miles
from home. The earth still comes alive
with characters, looking a little human,
but without the heavy baggage pressed
into the generic form, more flexible
and illusive, more demanding than
the idiocies of man. They are all saved
and waiting to spring before me
when I am too old, or gone to earth.
drycrikjournal 