Kate knows the botanical names of things
what wild herbs are good for what,
and she almost always has a map.
I’ll watch as she unfolds it
in the evening sun,
her finger tracing contour lines,
moving over lakes and woods,
pointing to where we’ve come from,
where we’re headed.
We’ve walked for more than twenty
years like this, leaping stiles,
skies racing over us
and still, sometimes,
we’ll find ourselves standing
at an unexpected field,
its tall bent grasses
If you have any comments on this poem, Michaela Ridgway
would be pleased to hear from you.