In northern Wisconsin,
we expect to see pink
ladyslippers, but we’re early—
they’re tardy. We find
their favorite forests
but not a one. It’s like expecting
a loveletter from someone
you’re nuts about. The postman
brings only junk mail and bills.
Every day. You admit
no letter will come, mope.
Yet you keep looking.
originally appeared in Sea Change (2003)
Ice and Gaywings 