Down in Slab Hollow Grandma sits by the fire and does not
speak,
Anemone does something in the kitchen,
the cranky philosophe grinds valves in the shop.
Go with the h ermit
to
trace the course of the brook.
Feet frigid in brown water, sit on a stone,
pebbles of years nudging numb toes and fingers ,
down to the cement bridge, the waterfall,
past knowledge to the river, city, ocean.
Ineffability was always the point.
Was land at fault if nothing could be uttered?
The fields put on their yellow shawls, chenille,
the bushes flutter yellow frills in wind.
Spading up last year's rot, keep off of names,
identify by texture each transformed
species of garbage: eggshell, kitty litter,
potato peel, ash, leafmold. Know
what layers exactly make the garden grow.
Certain things turn out to be important:
bluejay gulping mouse poison intended for ants
finds it refreshing; swa llow fussily
inspects a prefab condominium,
rejects it; mist a ll week, and rain.
To bed, to sleep, and emulously to dream
of bicentennial buffaloes. Full moon
illumines Buick, barn. Now the dream master
sets the main fea ture in a T-shaped room:
ca thedral-like, blond wood , white walls and mirrors,
niched guests each making th e expected gesture
to the enchanting distant host.
No, don ' t be sad .
To have entered the vau lted place and sat at tabl e
with the others is not littl e.
But never getting closer
to
the master of the feast
and waking to spring rain
is where it starts again.
