I live in a village on the woodsedge.
Pin oaks and sugar maples lead past
creeping Charlie and dandelions,
beckoning me away from what’s human
toward something larger and smaller, both.
The chickadees scold me fondly,
the pokeweed sets its purpling berries, and
of an evening, tree frogs whir their approval.
Everything speaks of borders.
Everything asks me to cross.