The Highest Boughs

I’ve tried, then started trying once again,
To see each thing just as it gives itself:
The gleams of rain that pool in withered leaves;
The blackened lump of stone amid the ashes.
To listen, also, I have tried, as frogs
Make their deep rolling churr beneath the call
Of blackbirds, shrill and spiraling; to bear
Unmoved the heavy, searching drone of bees.
The muskrat lodges rest within dark waters,
I tell myself, and on the northern shore,
Dull grey Petoskies lie in tumbled heaps
That hide their intricate geometries.
But who can do this always or for long?
Restless, the mind so steeped in its impressions.
Restless and orderly, to find that green
Returns both here and to the highest boughs.

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This article appears in October 2026.