Ron Riekki
When I Was Young, The Woods
felt young. The river wasn’t red yet,
ored. The mine saying to the river,
“This is mine,” meaning the river,
changing the river. The woods
felt so young then. And I felt
the woods, would touch the leaves
gently. It was like the woods were
my body. They were. I was born
in the U.P. Up in the U.P. And
I remember how the wind would
be so wild in the winter that some-
times the snowflakes would fall
upwards. I remember the spring
when the snow wouldn’t leave.
It would be May. The snow
would stand there on our lawn,
arms folded, saying, “I refuse
to leave.” And the fall would
fall all around us, leaves like
they were insisting on owning
the world, the lake bathed in
leaves, the leaves falling on top
of leaves, so many that my little
brother would hide in them, and
we’d yell out, “Where’s Marty?
What happened to Marty?” And
we’d see the leaves laughing,
the leaf pile’s belly moving up and
down, telling us that the world
was awake and happy and waiting
for us, every day, to enjoy the air,
the sun, the night, the moon,
the cold, the wind, this life.