behind the uniform suburban houses,
across their predictable streets and
urban blight, over the plastic signs
electric-lit, advertising whiskey
and tobacco, hotels, auto sales:
behind all this, always, eventually,
a hill-cresting line of trees
overlooks some long, low valley
covered in forest (these woods
along the contours of the Earth
are the moss on a dimpled stone,
while within and between those trees
is Life: predictable, minuscule, indomitable)
--and this horizon lives behind my eyes,
protecting, balancing what I feel and see
in all my close and dismal skies.
June 2017
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