My soul is burrowed
into the glacial moraine of Ohio,
next to a maple planted by my ancestors
that I don't get to measure anymore by its canopy
of katydids out of tune.

In the middle of winter,
I'm ice fishing, taking care
not to fall through, gliding along the ice
a shoe skater,
dad watching but not too close.

Even horizon of brown trees promising
a green of summer so we can
appreciate our humid hair,
my sisters and I sweating in the lake, ducking
out of the way of murderous horse flies.

In summer, I would soak the mulberries
to get out the bugs
and then eat them by the pound
fingers stained,
too impatient to bake them in a pie.

On mother's day, I'd cut the lilacs planted by my great
great grandmother  
and bring them inside.
They are so short-lived.

All of it
incredibly short-lived.