Some mornings seem full and empty. Vultures snap at the abundance
of roadkill. Barns with icicles on the eaves spill out burlap sacks of grain.
Lost in mountain hollows, water gushes from split rock. Boulders, thick
and glossed in iron and moss, hold our hands as we ascend the hilltops.
My sons ahead, poking into each crag the way they touch every fruit
in the bowl. Some are dry and some sour, but lips love their sweet flourish,
the trickle of discovery. At some point, we must taste the sun and spring grass.
We can’t explore every cave and dark crack in this face of the earth.
- The Ledges Trail, Cuyahoga Valley National Park
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 Whale Road Review, River Mouth Review, Club Plum Journal and Ekstasis Magazine.
