That only the sky is true
far blue and far white
black stars at night
That grief is the wound
and sorrow the lance
that heals the wound
That he cannot explain the
breach of the whale
or the cruelty of God
That only the river is always true
taking us where
and where we do not
want to go
In the year of fire and fear
when even the air has stopped breathing
I have come to see the woods again
to kneel beneath her waters, joined
where the main creek and her sister join
here there is dark spruce, tangled willow, darting minnow,
and refuge
again to ask
all the questions
but the wild ones say what they have always said
sweep of wind
rippling water
clatter of rockfall
silent deadfall
osprey wing on water
camp smoke half-remembered
trailhead half-departed
We have come to the Whitney
our pasts inside us, silent
like the dogwood flower
A tableau of sculptures
march the veranda,
some small and assertive,
some large and lethargic
all migrants, ex-captives
the clank of their chains
still shuffles the High Line
one foot fear, one foot courage
one step fear, one step courage
they join in assembly
they tell of their bondage
One figure, an ape of a figure
big African lips,
on his shoulder a bindle
not of clothes or belongings
but of empty food cans
I remember when father
lived in our car
lived out of cans
he too, emancipated
We bought the old place
for it’s reach to the woods
and it’s true…
a step from the door
and on to the trail that winds through the waiting aspen
is to enter the place
where the boundary awaits
where the rusted sign says
“please latch the gate” …
and to hear the land speak
of unfinished days.
There’s a corner-tree there
back deep in the woods
a spruce, near eight feet around,
and girded by strands of forgotten barbed wire.
On the day
that the rancher and his boy
built this fence together
did he stop, and stand, and look across
and loving his son
with each beat of his chest
know that this day
this sweet golden day
this bright manly day
what we do with our days
is like the clear river
—
all the rails
with their whispers
of longed-for arrivals
all the nails
holding our bones upright
all the girder and truss
and our hard love for safety
all our fence, all our fears
standing sentry at night
The blood moon arises
the seeing stars know
the sleeping town murmurs
of snow
—
Read. Write. Love the wilderness.
