For Lem Coley
In the reeds
higher than our heads
morning light peeled
softly off the
brittle yellow
strands like corn ears
ripening. Caged inside
verticals of fragile
grey and beige, we
crashed on ahead
toward brighter gold
stands beyond reaching,
a wilderness of wicker and thin
snapped vines, tangled
twigs. Some hours
after dawn and early
Spring, already thorny,
the ground soft, wet
underfoot squelchy,
potholes. Ahead,
where the dog yapped
blind among the reeds,
we looked up at
the same frail tangles
we were breaking
through. So composed
they seemed, so
haphazardly serene,
beyond construction.