poemtober day 1- landscape

 
ive replaced trees with mountains and ponds with lakes
but they all turn green at some point in the year. 
a maple tree rounds at the top, a pine points upwards. 
its not as hard to visit anymore,
I only tear up when i say goodbye and kiss the roads with no yellow lines. 
finding my footing took two decades and i still trip over nothing,
landing in the under painting of a new england landscape—
the type frost would write about, not dickinson.