The fissures that web the forest
wrinkle the land, age it like time ages us. We try

to find the path to the clearing, to spot
the gum-covered oak or dollops of phlox.

We search for our old treehouse, for smashed
beer cans. Search for arrows sunk in fallen trees.

We want something we recognize, want the land
we tried to map, that we tripped over,

that we sang to. We know
our wants are stupid.

The earth won’t let us own it.
We never own anything, really.

*

Brian Czyzyk is a senior English Writing major at Northern Michigan University, originally from Northern Lower Michigan. He serves as an editor for NMU’s undergraduate literary journal Ore Ink Review, and is a tutor at NMU’s Writing Center. His work has appeared in Portage Magazine, Dunes Review, Sink Hollow, and The Sandy River Review. He wishes you the best.