Standing beside the ridgeline drive, trailheads split
like water drops. Some evaporate, like mist,
rising to the mossy tops of rocks.
Some wind, dripping down the ridge and
rounding roots that bulge like watermelons,
before diving through. We will too, and have to choose
flinty horn or sparse hollow. Gentle murmur
of the watercourse, deep breath of a summit view.
No matter what we do, small arrowheads of sweat
begin to spread under our packs, pointing out
that we have to move uphill in every direction.
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry - all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in River Mouth Review, Whale Road Review, Dwelling Literary and Ekstasis Magazine.