“Among the Trodden Ways” by Leatha Kendrick

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.                “Nor can foot feel, being shod.”
.                   –Gerard Manley Hopkins

Under the gridwork, old
earth lies, subdued to lawn
and specimen tree. Each curve
and cul-de-sac overlays
field and farm. Drawn

long ago in fading ink
on browned paper, once
only someone’s thought,
these blocks arose,
though the concrete
now is cracked, the asphalt
overlaid a dozen

times since then. And before
the field? Savannah? Trees?
No way to sense it
from what’s left. What
features of the place remain?

A street that dips and rises.
A storm drain, culvert
where perhaps was swamp.
Neighborhoods propagate,
like lichen or shelf
fungi, spread until

the host sinks, depleted.
Peel away these streets
there’s nothing alive
underneath, except
our teeming
waste. And yet
in every crevice,

the dear green lies
ready to take back
its own. Clover,
chickweed, crabgrass
sent out to reconnoiter.

-Leatha Kendrick

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