From above,
The trail from my house
To the pocket pond
Is made of X’s.
My boots stamp them in the snow
To make a treasure map
(Think of The Goonies or
That pirate movie with beads and buckles).
Exes,
Who have no idea
What has become of me,
Who track their own paths
Folded in creases on the maps
Of crumpled memory.
Axis,
If you turned it just so,
I’d reach iced spaces upriver
With waterfall names like
Minnehaha or Bridal Veil.
But here, home, eye-level,
My dog sniffs from print to print,
And eats the ones he loves.
Cynthia Hamill 