originally published in Rattapallax, 2002

Adding to a Candle

On the slope I ascend for a sick friend,

look closely, that’s me in the underbrush

again, how tiny am I against the hillside,

fighting the raspberries and poison ivy,

bushwhacking through hemlocks

and unpotted plants, ferns maybe,

little yellow flowers blown up

like little obsolete stars.

I haven’t found a trail, that’s OK,

whoever you are. I’m only a few minutes

from town, but deep, escaping the car sounds,

the saw mill’s desperate advances.

I forded a brook in my running shoes,

which aren’t made for walking,

dipped my right foot into the brook

like I was adding layers to a candle.

I don’t know how to pray.

It’s awkward on my knees, bending

before the needle mat, all that talking to someone

I don’t know how to see. I only know what I do—

my feet passing over stumps and fungus,

my hands fighting back the branches,

my body pushing through the poison,

my path closing in behind me.