In the not-not-woods

^{“Because the grief knot is known to slip apart ‘with astonishing ease,’
it is considered one of the most insecure of knots.”
—Wikipedia, “Grief Knot”}

I not-see houses at the not-edge of the trees. Nothing gnaws through brush:
no football deflated, no crumpled seltzer cans. Possums emerge and are 
not-run over. This yard is a certified wildlife habitat. These yards Make America
Laugh Again. Go Blue. From the top of a parking garage, I face the endless
not-anything. It is almost-green as I know it not-here. A golf course is not a rash,
not a sore, not a scab. It’s not so bad. A not-lover tells me these are Midwest Clouds 
after we drive under the same frothy white for hours. There is not-not-ocean
on the other side of the road. Listen. I came from not-here. I know better than 
to fault the land. ‘Āina has not-not-synonyms. There is no water I can look at 
or not-look at and not-think of poison. Ground plumes. Oil spills. The not-
government not-warns of PFAs. Not-alarms at white foam. I am not-embering
with my not-anger. In this corner of not-Michigan, There is no public access 
to tracts of forest, wetlands, shorelines. These are not unprecedented times. 
What not-new not-apologies will we hear in one hundred years? Who will not 
make them? I am not-not-exhausted afterwalking twelve miles in not-woods 
open to not-scientists like me. There are no switchbacks. With every step, I not-
remember no mountains. No hemlocks. No cedars. No spruces. No dwarf rose. 
No roses. No roses. Nō. My mother taught me to shake branches like hands, 
to know pines by their follicles. Without her, I not-name plants with not-names 
for other plants. How much to not-remember! Mother not-not-is a metonym. 
When I not-sleep, I not-hear the train not-wailing. I am not too far from her.