When You Get Out

The summer is-ness
Of a tangled bank
In neglected woods—

Not special woods, not
Parkland, hiking trail,
Beautiful tour woods—

Just second-growth woods
And third, feral green,
Overrunning scars

From fires and loggers—
It has a sweet scent,
Moss in sun, broken

Stems of grass, weedy,
Invasive flowers,
Tumbled, punky logs.

There are loud machines
On the nearby road,
Out of sight, a stream

With its sound between
Wind and machine roar,
Also out of sight.

But it’s the sun, dust,
The drying mud, bugs,
And the green that is.