Laura Glenn

Climbing the swayback hill
by Bird Cemetery Road,
my feet sink into mud,
the small bones—roots.

I'm turning into a bush
of burrs that want me
to carry their seeds.
Picking the little porcupines off

I stump into a log—
it splinters into pages—
detailed with worms.
Abandoning that log-book,

I stagger up
toward a tree
with a blue hole: blue center.
I want to forget those worms.

The tree, firmly rooted,
arches beyond the ledge
overlooking the patchwork comforter
of fields. Approaching

the windswept tree,
my shadow flings
itself over—flies a little
and returns.