Every poem is an occasion, although not all
Dedicate themselves to other occasions.
At this trailhead, now white with untracked
Old snow, I sat with my toddler daughter
Once in summer, on the edge of a storm,
Several years ago. We played in the rocks,
And light rain matted our hair, cooling us
Off from the heavy air. Lightning flickered.
That was an occasion that wasn’t this one.
And what was our unfolding metaphor there
Among the sandstone, roots, and branches?
Rhizomes? Dendrites? Sedimentary layers
Of parental memory, encrusted sentiments?
What were the sly allusions to local folktales
And canonical literatures? A trailhead exists
For visitors, not for true adventurers. We were,
I am, perhaps such visitors. But on neither
Occasion did we accept the trailhead’s posted
Invitation. We played. We visited. We left.
We changed. We also returned, on occasion.
Other paths were our actual adventures. This
Trailhead meant only rest. It begged, “Read on,
My friends. You’ll learn to love me yet.” Darker
Woods lay elsewhere, however, far away
From such open, sunny, juniper-piñon canyons,
Deeper, truer, fictive woods with trails that never
Looped back to intersect. We did not accept.
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