Nature Poem
Amanda Reynolds

The stout banana spider

loves the four-inch boards of the deck

my steps grind deeper into the earth.

At the trail head the sign should read:

Welcome to a few acres of useless

muse hunting. I stop for a moment

to think of  Mr. Bivens (live-oak chopper)

with one arm, his ghost, nothing to do but sit

with vines and moss, what I’ve mistaken

for snakes and mold. Here he dozes

until he hears my steps, then he’s off again, diaphanous

as ether, cobwebs licking his arm like tongues.

Perhaps this park is better off without me,

no urban temptations, no rubber soles,

no pen poised, no vision lacking.