A few more, as we veered among the shifting vistas
of Skyline Drive in bright morning sunlight,
Milky Ways of wild daisies waving from roadside,
white and gold dots against windblown grasses.
Most worries seemed trivial up there on the blue
rooftop of Virginia, the "mother of presidents."
Conversation turned to poetry, that year's
paramount topic since things I'd written were now
appearing in print, the hoped-for endorsement
at last conferred. I didn't grasp how rare
his
a priori
support of the fantastic
project was, while I soldiered on without much
worrying about income, seconded by him,
an architect in the line of Wright and Kahn.
When we came down from the Blue Ridge, it was only
to push on to Charlottesville, the university
and another celebrated hill outside town, site
of our most versatile president's house.
The estate implied to some of its visitors
that those ideal, white-elephant fantasies
Americans have always had a weakness for at times
come true as shrine of beauty or cradle of thought
that then sets forth to revise the status quo .
Gllided
change, I mean, since nothing,
in any case, ever stays the same. Even us.
We had two more years until dividing forces
clearer to me now than they were then sent him
elsewhere. But a quality of wordlessness
is still within reach, present in the snapshot
before me right now, and still emitting energy.
Hands on hips he smiles, standing beneath
frozen hands of the clock set over the door
of the domed house that has become the house we share.
(Henry Barstow in a field outside Front Royal
watches his son Billy tote the .22 he gave him
for his birthday. Safety's on, but the boy isn't
easy with it, clearly. He's just ten, an only child.
Henry's own twelve-gauge is like an extra trusty limb.
A little target practice and the boy'll feel handier
with his rifle. Morning sunlight flickering with wind
in the distant hickories. Billy stops and stoops down
