there is a creek near
the house where i grew up
nearly the only plot of nature
save for those reconstructed annhilations
called parks (we used to park, you know where).

around the creek besides
twin homes and garages
stand trees, lay logs
a girl's collection of diaries
abandoned, he would know.

the kind of Cold that doesn't matter
its worth is warming
down the bike trail
that cut the only forest we knew
penance for the rails and the highways
that eventually led us Home.