Adirondack

June 6, 2012

Adirondack

I clamber over rooftops,

perch on lighthouses, to watch

the dawn as it breaks, overlooking

the rocking masts in the harbor,

a few early boats with their sails up and full

of the morning breeze that swells

along the lake’s glassy surface.

I lie in the ferns at night with the does

and fawns, white-tailed and calm

as their felt-furred bodies settle into sleep.

I sing to the birds as they dream,

as I slowly number the trees

and the stars. The breathing

of the forest is hushed

and soft.

I gallop through the ravines,

the glacier-torn canyons,

a hand along the worn-away, pock-marked

granite or sandstone sides. I

touch all the splintered trees, war-wounded

and crutched, where lightning struck or fire
raged or floods ravaged.

I chat up the waitresses in cafés

and bagel shops, sitting out on the patio

at a black metal table, talking about the weather or

how lovely the water looks today. At the bar, I lean
against the solid, polished oak, tracing

its knots with my nails as the bartender

and I stay late, discussing the meanings of things,

and the sun drowns its sorrows in the dark lake

behind us.

I walk along village streets, gazing into

cheery little shop windows, all bright and lit

with color. I’m counting the thousands

of cracks in the concrete, visiting the soup

kitchens with their old and cobbled stone,

pounding the stakes of foreclosure signs

into the soft earth.

This place,

I become its wildlife: its predators

and its prey, padding over entangled roots, drinking

from cold streams, diving down

the waterfalls. I cry from its canopied leaves

for more, more, more, because

nothing I have is ever, ever enough.