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We are in the woods—
My cousin and I,
and the man who shares my life.
We have gone to submerge ourselves in greenery and growth,
In Renaissance opposites,
Remember-you-will-live.
Ahead they talk, I think, of NPR,
And I watch my feet for slips
And snakes.
These refuge woods contain such dozen lives—
That heron’s grace,
This lichen’s eternity,
And a shrub of growths called—
So says the sign—
Piggy-Back-Plant—
Youth on Age.
And us it contains,
In our waterproof coats and rubber-lined soles.
We crouch at the edge of the marsh and listen for frogs.
Instead we hear a buzzing from a pocket.
My husband’s brother is calling.
He is staying with us, and he needs to know what is
The WiFi password.
It’s on a Post-It on the mantel. We hang up.
I can’t see any frogs, I say.
My cousin says they sense danger.
I am no danger to frogs, I say.
A minute later, I remember.
Except, I say, we are killing them all.
He nods.
We turn for home.