I do not tire of the bluffs,
with their grand faces.
I pass from one to the next,
straining to see into the depths
between them shrouded
in a canopy that was bare branches
just weeks before. I came here
knowing the differences
would show. The same is true
for the similarities. Would
the summers be longer?
The winters colder? It’s not
the weather so much
as the familiarity. I’m getting
there, but I still miss the blue water
and the maples. I miss the maples.
Today is Day 12 of National/Global Poetry Writing Month.
This may be off-prompt, but I’m sharing it at napowrimo.net.
Image: of course, any time I see a maple while hiking in Missouri…