Your mind wants to say
a logging road is where the dead walked,
winch and flatbed for a prosthesis,
good redwood makes good fencing
for all those good neighbors.
It's the spray of starflowers
that ruins everything. Salal braiding edges
grows inward, as you walk deeper.
Taste of salmonberry, vulnerable sweetness
of thimbleberry shock your mouth.
Shoots and seedlings with their
grand new schemes, resettle, climbing
stump to sky. See how time distilled
is shade? Ivy, feral grasses, tan oaks may
be unwanted, but by whom? The three petals
of a late trillium, a pool of white light
blooming in graveled mud, say
this path is sacred too.