WANT FOR THIS
The land was ours before we were the land's,
or something like that : rowboat mysteries and
forest dwellers. Men from the upland mountains,
running rampant through these native shores.
I've awakened from a delirium of History,
believing all the things I once was told no
longer. Diatribe through the ages.
-
I shake with a new responsibility : this is
the geography of heart and mind, scouting the
land. I ride the slow rivers, dousing the shores
where old farmers wait : their memories of land
and work and plow and oxen, like some Aaron
Copland dream of edges and rims, plays on.
-
Men shake their heads now, in silence. Apron'd
wives of farm and field come in from their chores
to watch the new barges roll the waters, filled with
goods and foodstuffs, lumber and nails. The plow
that broke the plains? In all of these things,
a totally new beginning.
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