We’ve told our students, many times
not to stray to the edge of the woods—
But even after their hands turn red,
and we send them to the nurse
for poison ivy, there they are again:
crouched beside spring trillium,
not far from three-leaved vines.
I wonder what makes them bend our rules,
further and further like the maple that taps
on the gym windows in the wind.
Some would say, children never learn.
My students blame anything other
than themselves, when they are caught
once more beyond the fence line.
They gesture to the tulip poplar
where the hawk often visits, its cry
reverberating in the sky. Pine needles,
an invitation to a game of pick-up sticks—
fallen leaves, lost potion ingredients.
It’s lies like these that I’m beginning to believe.
—
Eliana Franklin (she/her) is a second-year poet at UNC Greensboro’s MFA in Creative Writing. She has previous publications in Deep Wild: Writing from the Backcountry and Pensive: A Global Journal of Spirituality and the Arts.
