210. SMALLPOX HILL

SMALLPOX HILL
Each morning I walk up Smallpox Hill to where
Nassau Hall now is. The site was used as a refuge,
long ago, a site for a village, where the people could
hide from the disease-ridden lowlands thought
down below - the river-run marsh, the wetlands
and swamp. Some swaddled miasma of thought,
wrapped in offal and bacteria, the scourge of
contagion and death.
-
By contrast, it was thought, the high-hill would be
the place to build -- free like freedom from
pestilence and wrath, some inner-peaceful
workings of Man's own crazy mind. So,
they settled there - the little rows of huts and
stores along the old Lenape trail. Now Nassau Street,
I cross that too, each day, free in my way from
contagion and spoil. I hope, that is, to surmise.
-
It was right here too, where Aaron Burr passed his
childhood days. He's buried here now, just down some
from the site, along with a host of others - lots, in
fact, of notables and local worthies. Sometimes, I
suppose, it doesn't take only Smallpox to
scatter a person's name - any death
will do the same.
-
Many days I see the sun come up bright,
and strong - cleansing the air with its power
and rays. Other times, on the drearier days, it's
storm clouds and wind, or all rain or snow.
No telling the difference, which way it will go.
Each morning, at some dawn, I walk up
Smallpox Hill and I'm gone...