Notes in the Margin

At the edge of the woods at the edge of town,

edging sideways toward home, leaning

On my hiking pole, I’m counting the jimsonweeds

that grow along the ditch in front of me

And stop where the shadows start. Behind them

under the canopy sprawl understory plants

Whose names I don’t know. I won’t look them up

In the field guide. For once the names don’t count.

It doesn’t matter how many sentences I read.

I’ve let the pages pile up over so many decades

It’s impossible to remember what I was before.

If I crack my magic hiking staff, it’s just two more

Broken sticks. If I throw my books into deep shade,

the leaves will still break down. What difference

Does it make if the Queen Anne’s lace is hemlock?

I know the forest is still on the same page.