Poetry by Matthew Miller

"Do Not Let the Sun Go Down"

Charred zucchini on the grill. Frisbees top burned out, fire pit wood.
The jonagold’s trunk tattered where groundhogs have scratched and bit wood.

In oaken garden boxes, neighbors plant blooms of ruby asters.
Bursts of color in the dirt. They twist the spade until they hit wood.

The smell of grass clippings and gasoline spilled on the patio.
Chips in the concrete, where the ax splintered loose from the split wood.

Sandals unlatched on the porch, sweaty footprints fade into concrete.
Shards of mulch pollock the sidewalk, as if lilies could spit wood.

Japanese rose bushes spread through the side lot. Each new stem pushes down
the heads of brothers, so none see the first star blink through the moonlit wood.

"Red Maple"

(Acer rubrum)

I am known for my seeds,
these samaras with curved wings

that whirl down anywhere.
My spring buds toss drops of garnet

and wine through stagnant swamps
and evergreen eskers.

But now, let my leaves be ripped off,
wrapped to preserve apples and root crops.

Don’t stop the knife slicing into my heart,
pulling out the inner bark,

and grinding it to bitter powder.
Spilling my insides might stop their bleeding.

"Living Waters"

Drooping Indian grasses flail out
across the narrow, muddy trek down
to the kettle lake. We bicker
about spikelets skimming our bare shins.
Mute, sunlit windflowers shake
their heads as the arguments begin.

One yanks the shoulder strap of
another, one wants piggybacked, all
whine for turning back. We stop to see
how beavers cleaved a tree, dead
now in the stagnant green algae.
Glacial waters went in, but flow nowhere.

We walk off the esker, following
a quiet word and a monarch.
Its orange lines flutter through humid fields,
stem to stem under unbridled sun.
The trail widens, smiling on the clear
surface of the next lake the glaciers dug.

Here, water channels in and out.
Signs punctuate the path, so we can name
the shade: gooseberry and honey locust.
One sign says “life in a dead tree.”
From inside, we hear a dampened
woodpecker, knocking a hello. One son
breathes in, reaches out for his mother’s hand.

- Chain O’Lakes State Park