I walk past here every spring on a dirt road
that leads back to the hill where the coltsfoot grow.
I come to see them year after year,
up there, on the ridge above the reservoir.
In my mind I call this stretch the burial ground.
And look how full it is this year.
A wave of sorrow rolls through me.
I’m an admirer of trees.
But it doesn’t feel sorrowful here;
it feels still, and reverent
in this cool April air.
The trees that encircle the fallen ones
remind me of the way elephants
pay homage to their dead,
surrounding them with their wise peace.
I turn to the road that leads to the coltsfoot
and, climbing the hill, find them.
Happiness dances inside me.
When I go back down the hill
I meet an older couple walking the trail,
she with a walking stick, with two dogs
at their side. I show the woman where
the coltsfoot are and she sees them
and I tell her legend has it that when
Spring rides in on her pony, coltsfoot
grow in its tracks. She likes the tale.
Then there it is again.
I walk softly across this bog. Every year
I come here. Every year it is different.
Every year it’s the same.