No ruts on this sunbaked 
reach of road: just some dust 
through the cranberries 
that loud tires have left behind. 
But the furrow to my right,
this canal of sky-dazzled water 
dark as oolong or darjeeling 
waist-high in wildflowers,
slow-going down there. . .

when I finally reach the swamp 
birch a mile off
and start into the forest,
more than my striving
let this ditch sparkle
be the thing that I remember:
all these cups of tea 
brightly serving themselves 
to the soft applause 
of monarch wings.


Published: Thin Places Literary Journal, Issue Two, 2026