I know by the lay of weeds

and broken branches

that I am not the first person

to chance this way.

Leaving the blackened pavement of the parking lot,

I lean into the opening in the branches

that block the bank of the Olentangy.

Leaves matted from two days’ drizzle

cushion my step as I brush by low limbs

and bend beneath the larger ones.

Stems of poison oak jag out

as much as twelve feet

beyond the trunk of the cottonwood

holding them toward the sun.

The leaves jangle a muted crimson

hanging just above the surface of the river.

A mass of seeds holds dark against

the reflected sky sliding by slowly

in the barely rippled glass of the water.

A single leather leaf

nests among the green of Amur honeysuckle,

fringed by bright berries

sprouted from the shadows

that live along the river.

Whatever reaches light

can bear its fruit

even in the midst of mud and clay,

provided its roots have found

the substance of Life

and yield to their purpose.

H. Arnett

10/12/11