Growing up, I thought
I could go there, I could follow
the trickling curve of river,
the invitation of thin forest,
study turnings of branches
above the burl-studded length
of the nearest trunk and know
direction, and someone

coming in from the kitchen
with popcorn would see
my shoulders disappear
into the canopy-shrouded dim,
leaves waving back
to their stillness.

This place used to hang
above the couch, the farthest 
I could reach.  Slumped
across the room, half-warmed
by the fire, I would look up,
over the talk of my family,
surprised at how the water
seemed only ankle-deep.

Propped now above our heads
in darkness filled with boxes,
clothes too small for anyone,
a lamp, and a row of glass jars,
used up things in the trail of living,
the few sifted strands of light
waver where they touch water.
Wind begins to breathe
in the leaves of the farthest place.