After John Lackey’s “strutting our dubious stuff

It could be the path an eight-year-old takes
through the summer woods to his Maw’s farm house,
its understory full of unread stories
that wrap around his legs and entangle

his mind, vines climbing with an urge that seeks
light above the dense canopy. How else
to be taken seriously with eyes
focused on what’s unseen beyond the bend?

The forest is all there is to this place,
grown-ups are of no use.  He’s not too old
to believe in monsters or angels,

but with no open sky or endless sea
this vivid color is what he beholds
and what will carry him on to the end