My Father, the Would-be Forest Ranger,
My Father, the Would-be Forest Ranger,
who Scotch-tapes stems of ironweed and broomsedge
to the wall in his home office;
who exchanges marco and polo for calls
of andro and pogon;
who gently admonishes my footfalls in his backyard,
paranoid I’ll crush the beginning of some little bluestem;
who has tried to teach me the hoot of a barred owl for twenty years;
who loves pokeberry for the sake of the birds;
who made me a brew of sassafras tea;
who dreams of asphalt that eats itself so the trees can grow tall
again in abandoned strip mall parking lots.
