Dad was against it from the start. Said it was hopeless,

a long haul on steep gravel, a small shed on the left–or was it the right?--

a steep sloping bend to a pond on the right, a fencerow,

a pine grove, an unmarked road. Nothing to try without him.

Still, my son and I took every turn possible off Pounds Hollow Road

into mud, gulleys, past barking dogs behind barbed wire,

NO TRESPASSING signs--but either the hill never came,

the shed never appeared, or the pond was on the wrong side.

At dusk my dad called us, talking needles and haystacks,

worried about property owners with Rottweilers and shotguns--

so we gave up and set out in search of a decent grilled cheese.

We’re not giving up yet, Mom says my kid, later, as he falls asleep.

In the morning chill we again drove up and down

dusty, pitted roads until at last the sun moved over the treeline

and we saw a shed, a hill and curves

lined up in the right order and there, off to the right--yes, a pond.

Up ahead we could see a red double-A frame rise from the hill

wearing the sparkling crown of morning. We stepped out of the car

and sat on the hood, my son and I, while a choir of spring peepers

and white pine whispers filled our ears. What was he like, Mom?