In Trackless woods, it puzzled me to find
four great rock maples seemingly aligned,
as if they had been set out in a row
before some house a century ago,
To edge the property and lend some shade.
I looked to see if ancient wheels had made
old ruts to which these trees ran parallel,
but there were none, so far as I could tell
There’d been no roadway. Nor could I find the square
depression of a cellar anywhere,
And so I tramped on further, to survey
amazing patterns in a hornbeam spray
or spirals in a pinecone, under trees
not subject to our stiff geometries.