MOUNTAIN INTERVAL

PAGE

The city had become isolated

And finally left the country to itself;

When the snow whirls around, it doesn't settle down.

And swirling leaves that hadn't been put down yet, there moved

A stranger in our yard, who looked like they were from the city,

Yet did in country fashion in that there

He sat and waited until he got us to come out.

A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.

He turned out to be the city reborn.

To search for something it had forgotten

And couldn't manage without it and still have its Christmas.

He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees.

My woods—the young fir balsams like a place

Where all the houses are churches and have steeples.

I hadn’t considered them to be Christmas Trees.

I doubt I was tempted at all.

To sell them off their feet so they get into cars

And leave the hill behind the house completely bare,

Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.

I’d hate for them to find out if I were.

Yet I would hate to keep my trees except

As others hold theirs or deny them,

Beyond the time of profitable growth,

The market will determine everything in the end.

I hesitated for so long about selling.

Then whether from misguided courtesy

And the fear of appearing to lack words, or whether

From the hope of hearing something good about what was mine,

I said, “There aren’t enough to be worthwhile.”

“I could soon tell how many they would cut,

You let me check them.

"Feel free to look."

But don’t think I’m going to let you have them.”

Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close

That cut each other off from branches, but not a few

Quite solitary and having equal branches

All around and around. He nodded “Yes” to the latter,

Or stopped to speak under some prettier one,

With a buyer’s restraint, “That'll work.”

I thought so too, but I wasn't there to say it.

We climbed the pasture to the south, crossed over,

And came down from the north.

He said, “One thousand.”

“A thousand Christmas trees!––how much for each one?”

He felt the need to soften that for me:

“A thousand trees would cost thirty dollars.”

Then I was sure I had never meant

To let him have them. Never show surprise!

But thirty dollars felt so small next to

The area of pasture I should clear, three cents

(For that was all they figured out apiece),

Three cents is so tiny compared to the dollar friends.

I should be writing within the next hour.

Would pay in cities for good trees like those,

Regular vestry trees for Sunday Schools

Could hold on long enough to take out enough.

A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t even know I had!

Worth three cents more to give away than to sell,

As can be demonstrated by a straightforward calculation.

Too bad I couldn’t write it in a letter.

I can't help wishing I could send you one,

Merry Christmas!

All outside looked darkly in at him

Through the thin frost, almost like separate stars,

That collects on the window in empty rooms.

What stopped his eyes from meeting the gaze

Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.

What stopped him from remembering what it was

That creaking room was brought to him by age.

He stood surrounded by barrels––feeling confused.

And having frightened the basement beneath him

In stomping over there, he startled it once more.

In stomping off;––and frightened the outer night,

Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar

Of trees and the sound of breaking branches, everyday things,

But nothing feels quite like pounding on a box.

A light he was to only himself.

Where he sat now, worried about what he already understood,

A soft light, and then nothing at all.

He sent her off to the moon, just as she was,

So late in the night, with the shattered moon

As better than the sun in any case

For such an accusation, his snow on the roof,

His icicles along the wall to keep;

And slept. The log that shifted suddenly

Once in the stove, it bothered him and he moved,

And relaxed his heavy breathing, but still slept.

One old man––one man––can’t fill a house,

A farm, a rural area, or if he can,

It’s how he does it on a winter night.

There is a patch of old snow in a corner

I should have guessed that.

Was the rain a powerful storm?

Brought to a stop.

It is covered in dirt as if

Fine print covered it,

The news of a day I've forgotten––

If I ever read it.

She stood by the kitchen sink and looked

Over the sink through a dusty window

At weeds, the water from the sink rose high.

She wore her cape; she held her hat in her hand.

Behind her was confusion in the room,

Of chairs flipped upside down to resemble people sitting

In other chairs, and something, come to look,

For every room a house has—living room, bedroom,

And the dining room––was all thrown together haphazardly in the kitchen.

And now and then a smudged, hellish face

Looked into a door behind her and spoke to

Her back. She always responded without facing me.

“Where should I place this walnut desk, ma'am?”

“Put it on top of something that's on top

Of something else,” she laughed. “Oh, just put it where

You can leave tonight and go. It’s almost dark;

You should be heading back to town now.

Another blackened face poked in and looked

And smiled, and when she didn’t turn, spoke softly,

“What do you see out the window, lady?”

“Never have I been praised like this before.

Would there be proof of having been called a lady?

More than so many times, make me a lady.

In common law, I wonder.

“But I request,

What do you see out the window, ma'am?

“What I’ll be seeing more of in the years

To arrive here while I stand and go around

Of many plates with towels many times.

"And what does that mean? You're just avoiding the issue."

"Rank weeds that thrive in the water from the dishpan."

More than a few women enjoy the dishpan, Joe;

A small patch of lawn for you;

Not much of that until I get to the woods.

That’s all there is. And it’s barely enough to call.

A perspective.

“And yet you think you enjoy it, dear?”

“That’s what you’re so eager to know! You hope

I like it. Something big just went away.

Off there upstairs. The very steps of men.

As great as that is, it shatters the frame.

Of such a small house. Once left alone,

You and I, my dear, will walk more gently.

Up and down the stairs and through the rooms, and none

But sudden winds that take them from our hands

"Will ever slam the doors."

"I think you get it."

More than you’d like to admit, looking out that window.

“No; because in addition to the things I’m telling you about,

I only see the years. They come and go.

In between the weeds, the field,

The wood.

"What type of years?"

“Why, recent years––

Different from early years.

"I see them, too."

"You didn’t count them?"

“No, the farther away

So I ended up rushing without even trying.

It’s hard to believe that there would be so many of them.

We’d like to know, since we’re not young anymore.

And something else just went off over there.

It sounds like the men went down,

And every crash meant one less person to come back.

To the lit city streets we, too, have known,

But now they are surrendering to the country's darkness.

“Come from that window where you see too much for me,

And see things in a more vibrant way from here.

They’re leaving. Check out this husky climbing up.

Over the wheel into the high seat,

Lighting his pipe now, squinting down his nose

At the flame burning downward as he inhales it.

“See how it makes the side of his nose shine, a proof

How dark it's getting. Can you tell what time it is?

It is that? Or by the moon? The new moon!

What shoulder did I see her over? Neither.

A wire made of silver, as fresh as we

To everything. Her light won't shine for us much longer.

It’s something, though, to know we’re going to have her.

Night after night, growing stronger each time.

To help us get through our first two weeks. But, Joe,

The stove! Before they leave! Knock on the window;

Ask them to help you get it up and running.

We’re here dreaming. Hurry! Call them back!”

“They're not gone yet.”

“We’ve got to have the stove,

Whatever else we want. And a light.

Have we a candle if the lamp

And is oil buried out of reach?

Again

The house was filled with heavy footsteps, and the dark,

Door-filling men rushed in and grabbed the stove.

A hole in the wall looked like a cannon mouth,

To which they confirmed it by looking at it; and then

Came up the connected stovepipe in their hands,

So much too light and airy for their strength.

It almost looked like it was inflating.

Slipping from awkward grips toward the ceiling.

“A fit!” said one, and slammed a shoulder like a stovepipe.

“It’s good luck when you move in to begin

With good luck with your stovepipe. Never mind,

It’s not too bad in the country, settled down,

When people are getting older in life. You’ll enjoy it.

Joe said: “You big guys should find a farm,

And become good farmers, and let others be.

The city has work to do. There’s not enough

For everyone as it is in there.

“Wow!” one exclaimed frantically, and, when no one responded:

“Tell that to Jimmy here. He needs a farm.”

But Jimmy just pulled his jaw back.

Foolishly, he rolled his eyes as if to say

He saw himself as a farmer. Then there was a French boy.

Who said it seriously that made them laugh,

“My friend, you don't know what it is you're asking.”

He took off his hat and held it with both hands.

Across his chest to make it look like a bow:

“We’re giving you our opportunities on the farm.”

And then they all turned with loud footsteps.

And physically removed each other from the house.

“Goodbye to them! We confuse them. They think––

I don’t know what they think we see in what.

They leave us to that sloped pasture that looks

The back of the farm shows us; and your woods

To the north from your window at the sink,

Waiting to steal a step on us whenever

We look away or turn our attention to other things,

As in the game "Ten-step," the children play.

"Smart kids they seemed, and let them enjoy the city."

All they could say was 'Wow!' when you proposed.

Their emergence and becoming productive farmers.

“Did they make something lonely pass through you?

It would take more than them to make you feel sick––

Us of our bargain. But they left us so

As for our fate, it's like we're fools who can't even reason anymore.

“They almost shook me.”

"It’s all overwhelming"

What we’ve always wanted, I admit.

It seems bad for a moment makes it seem

Even worse, and so on, down, down, down.

It’s nothing; it’s just them leaving us at dusk.

I never handled it well when people left.

The first night after the guests have left, the house

Seems haunted or exposed. I always take

A personal interest in locking up

At bedtime, but the oddness quickly fades away.

He grabbed a dirty lantern from behind

A door. “There’s that we didn’t lose! And these!”––

Some matches he took out of his pocket. “For food––

The meals we've had are ours to keep.

I wish everything on earth was fair.

As certain as the meals we've had. I wish

The meals we haven't had were just that.

What do you know about where to find it?

The bread we picked up quickly at the store.

“There’s butter somewhere, too.”

“Let’s break the bread.”

I’ll start a fire to keep you company;

You won’t have any other company

Till Ed starts going out on a Sunday.

To check us out and share his thoughts

Of what needs trimming, shaping, breaking apart.

He’ll know what he would do if he were us,

And all at once. He'll make plans for us and plan

To help us, but he’ll make up for it in planning.

Well, you can put the loaf on the table.

Let’s see you grab your bread. I’ll start the fire.

I like chairs that fit under other chairs.

Not offering a woman––”

"Back at it, Joe!"

You’re exhausted.”

“I’m drunk, tired, and loopy;

Don’t worry about anything I say. It’s just part of the daily grind.

To clear out a house of all its belongings.

And fill another one with them fifteen miles away,

Although you do nothing but throw them down.

“Here we are, dropped into paradise, and we’re happy.”

“It’s all exactly what I have always wanted,

I can't believe this is what you wanted, too.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

“I'm curious to know”

If that's what you wanted, then how much?

“You wanted it for me.”

“A guilty conscience!"

You don’t want me to say anything if I don’t know.

“I don’t want to discover what’s impossible to know.

But who was the first to say the words to come?

"My dear,"

It’s about who had the idea first. You’re looking for it, Joe,

For things that don’t exist; I mean starts.

Ends and beginnings—these are just illusions.

There are only in-betweens.

“What’s this?”

"This life?"

Our sitting here together by the light of the lantern

Amid the wreckage of a former home?

You can't deny the lantern is old.

The stove isn't, and you aren't to me,

Nor I to you.

“Maybe you never were?”

“It would take me forever to recite

All of this isn’t new to where we are now.

New is a word for fools in towns who think

Style upon style in dress and thought at last

Must get somewhere. I’ve heard you say that.

“No, this isn’t a beginning.”

"Is this the end?"

“End is a dark word.”

“Is it too late?”

To bring you out for just a quick good-night chat

On the old peach trees on the hill to explore

By starlight in the grass for one last peach

The neighbors might not have considered it their right.

When the house wasn't occupied? I've been searching:

I doubt they’ve left us many grapes.

Before we get started on fixing up the house,

The first thing in the morning, we head out.

To go around the apple, cherry, peach,

Pine, alder, pasture, mowing, well, and brook.

All of a farm it is.

“I know this much:”

I’m going to put you in your bed, but first

I need you to help me build it. Come, the light.

When there were no more lanterns in the kitchen,

The fire escaped through gaps in the stove.

And danced in yellow wrigglers on the ceiling,

As comfortable as if they had always danced there.

“When I was as far as I could walk

From here today,

There was an hour.

All quiet

When leaning my head against a flower

I heard you speaking.

Don’t say I didn’t, because I heard you say––

You talked from that flower on the windowsill––

Do you remember what you said?

“First, tell me what you thought you heard.”

“Having found the flower and chased a bee away,

I tilted my head,

And holding by the stem,

I listened, and I thought I heard the word––

What was that? Did you say my name?

Or did you say—

Someone said, “Come”—I heard it as I was bowing.”

“I might have thought that, but I didn't say it out loud.”

"Well, I showed up."

As I walked down the hill next to the wall

There was a gate I had leaned against for the view.

And just turned around when I first saw you

As you came up the hill, we met. But all

We mingled with everyone that day, both the important and the ordinary.

Footprints in summer dust like we drew

The figure of our being less than two

But more than one so far. Your umbrella

Pointed the decimal off with one strong push.

And all the time we talked, you seemed to see

Something down there to smile at in the dust.

(Oh, it was without any bias against me!)

Afterward, I went by what you had passed.

Before we met and you knew what I had gone through.

By June, our stream has lost its melody and rush.

Sought after a lot after that, it will be found.

Either to have gone searching underground

(And taken with it all the Hyla breed

That yelled in the fog a month ago,

Like the sound of sleigh bells in a light dusting of snow)––

Or flourished and sprouted in jewel-weed,

Weak foliage that's blown around and bent

Even against the direction of its waters.

Its bed is just a worn-out paper sheet.

Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat––

A brook for only those who remember for a long time.

This, as you will see, is quite different.

Than with streams taken from elsewhere in song.

We love the things we love for who they are.

There is a singer that everyone knows,

Loud, a midsummer and a mid-forest bird,

Who makes the solid tree trunks resonate again?

He says that the leaves are old and that for the flowers

Mid-summer is to spring as one is to ten.

He says the early petal-fall is over

When pear and cherry blossoms fell like rain

On sunny days, there’s a moment of cloudiness;

And then comes that other fall we call fall.

He says the highway dust is everywhere.

The bird would stop and be like other birds.

But he knows that in singing, he shouldn't sing.

The question he implies without saying it outright

Is what to make of a lesser thing.

Love has the ground to which she holds on.

With hills and surrounding arms around––

Wall within wall to shut fear out.

But thought doesn't need any of that.

For thought has a pair of fearless wings.

On snow, sand, and grass, I see

Where love has left a mark

With struggling in the world’s embrace.

And that's how love is, and it's great to be.

But thought has loosened his ankles.

Thought cuts through the cosmic darkness

And stays in Sirius' disc all night,

Till day makes him turn back.

With the smell of something burning in every puff,

Back past the sun to a room on Earth.

His rewards in heaven are what they are.

Yet some say Love by being a slave

And just being has everything

In many ways, Thought excels greatly.

To find merged in another star.

When I see birches leaning to the left and right

Across the rows of straight, dark trees,

I like to think some guy has been swinging them.

But swinging doesn’t keep them down for long.

Ice storms do that. You’ve probably seen them often.

Loaded with ice on a sunny winter morning

After it rains. They click against each other.

As the breeze picks up, it shifts into various colors.

As the stir breaks and creates cracks in their enamel.

Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed their crystal shells.

Shattering and collapsing on the snow surface––

Such piles of broken glass to clean up.

You'd think the sky itself had collapsed.

They are pulled down to the dry ferns by the weight,

And they don’t seem to break; even though once they are bent

So low for such a long time, they never get back up:

You might see their trunks curving in the woods.

Years later, with their leaves scattered on the ground

Like girls on their hands and knees tossing their hair

Before them, things were laid out over their heads to dry in the sun.

But I was going to say when Truth came in

With all her straightforward talk about the ice storm

(Now am I free to be poetic?)

I would rather have a guy bend them.

As he went in and out to get the cows—

Some kid too far from town to learn baseball,

Whose only act was what he discovered himself,

Summer or winter, and could play by myself.

One by one, he took down his father's trees.

By riding them down again and again

Until he relaxed them,

And not a single one hung limp; none were left.

For him to succeed. He learned everything there was

To understand the importance of not jumping in too quickly

And so not taking the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always maintained his composure.

To the top branches, climbing with caution

With the same effort you use to fill a cup

Up to the top, and even overflowing.

Then he shot out, feet first, with a swish,

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So at one time, I was a swinger of birches.

And so I dream of going back to what I used to be.

It’s when I’m tired of thinking things through,

And life is too much like a forest without a path.

Where your face burns and tingles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is crying

From a twig's having whipped across it open.

I’d like to take a break from Earth for a bit.

And then return to it and start again.

May no fate deliberately misinterpret me

And partly give me what I want and take me away.

Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:

I don't know where it might go better.

I want to climb a birch tree,

And climb dark branches up a bright white trunk

Toward heaven, until the tree could hold no more,

But it lowered its top and set me down again.

That would be great both on the way there and on the way back.

One could do worse than be someone who swings on birches.

I took a walk down alone on Sunday after church.

To the place where John has been cutting down trees

To check out the birch for myself

He said I might need to support my peas.

The sun in the newly cut narrow gap

It was warm enough for May 1st,

And suffocatingly hot with the smell of sap

From stumps that are still pouring out their life.

The frogs that were croaking loudly

Wherever the land was low and wet,

The moment they heard my footsteps, everything went quiet.

To watch me and figure out why I'm here.

Birch branches piled everywhere!––

All fresh and in good shape from the recent harvest.

Time someone came with a cart and a pair.

And got them off the backs of the wildflowers.

They could be useful for gardening.

To wrap a little finger around,

The same way you grab cat's-cradle strings,

And get themselves up and running.

Small good to anything growing wild,

They were bending a lot of trillium.

That had sprouted before the branches were stacked.

And since it was coming up, it had to happen.

You come to pick me up from my job tonight.

When dinner's on the table, and we'll see

If I can stop burying the white

Soft petals have fallen from the apple tree.

(Soft petals, yes, but not so empty quite,

Mingled with these are smooth beans and wrinkled peas.

And go with you before you lose sight

Of what you came for and became like me,

Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.

How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed

On through waiting for that early birth

When, just as the soil gets spoiled with weeds,

The strong seedling with a bent body arrives

Shouldering its way and shaking off the dirt.

When a friend calls out to me from the road

And slows his horse to a purposeful walk,

I don’t stay put and look around.

On all the hills I haven't tended,

And shout from where I am, "What is it?"

No, not as there's a time to talk.

I pushed my hoe into the soft soil,

Blade end up and five feet tall,

And I trudge: I walk up to the stone wall.

For a casual visit.

Something inspires the lone cow lately.

To treat a wall like an open gate,

And think no more of wall-builders than you would of fools.

Her face is splattered with pulp and she's drooling.

A cider syrup. After tasting the fruit,

She looks down on a pasture that's dying at the roots.

She runs from tree to tree where they lie and sweeten.

The windfalls were covered in bits of straw and eaten by worms.

She leaves them hurt when she has to leave.

She shouts on a hill against the sky.

Her udder shrinks and the milk runs out.

Once on a day known as a "weather breeder,"

When the heat starts to blur the air and the sun

By its own power, it appears to be falling apart,

I was partly boring through, partly climbing through

A cedar swamp. Filled with cedar oil.

And dried bits of plants, feeling tired and overheated,

And I regret leaving the path I was familiar with,

I paused and rested on a kind of hook.

That had me by the coat as good as sitting down,

And since there was no other way to see,

Looked up at the sky, and there against the blue,

Stood over me a revived tree,

A tree that had fallen and been lifted again––

A silent ghost. He had stopped too,

As if afraid to step on me.

I noticed the odd position of his hands––

Up to his shoulders, dragging yellow strands

Of wire connecting men to men.

“You here?” I said. “Where aren’t you these days?”

And what's the news you're bringing––if you know?

And tell me where you're headed to––Montreal?

Me? I’m not headed anywhere at all.

Sometimes I stray off the beaten path.

Half looking for the orchid Calypso.

The battle ripped a cobweb diamond-strung

And picked a flower next to a ground bird's nest

Before it stained a single human breast.

The wilted flower drooped and hung down.

And still the bird returned to her young.

A butterfly had lost its way

A moment found in the air, his blooming peace,

Then she gently bent down to it and clung to it, fluttering.

On the empty upland pasture, there had spread

Overnight between the mullein stalks, a wheel of thread

And stretching cables damp with silver dew.

A sudden bullet whizzed by, startling it awake.

The spider inside rushed to welcome the fly,

But finding nothing, reluctantly left.

One shouldn't care

You and I

Care when the birds come around the house

To appear to say goodbye;

Or care so much when they return

With whatever they perform;

The truth is we are just as much

Way too excited about one thing

As we are too sad for the others here––

With birds that fill their lungs

But with each other and themselves

And the nests they build or make.

Always––I tell you this they learned––

Always at night when they returned

To the lonely house from far away

To unlit lamps and ash-colored fire,

They figured out how to shake the lock and key.

To accept whatever happens

Warning and time to leave for takeoff:

And choosing to spend the night outside rather than indoors,

They learned to leave the front door wide open

Until they had turned on the lamp inside.

I didn’t like how he left.

That smile! It never came from being happy.

Still he smiled—did you see him?—I knew it for sure!

Perhaps because we only gave him bread

And the miserable person realized from that that we were poor.

Perhaps because he allowed us to give instead

Of taking from us as he might have taken.

Perhaps he laughed at us for being married,

Or being very young (and he was pleased

To imagine us old and gone.

I wonder how far he’s gotten down the road.

He’s probably watching from the woods.

She had no saying that was dark enough

For the dark pine that stood

Always fiddling with the window latch

About the room where they slept.

The relentless but unhelpful hands

That with every pointless pass

Made the huge tree look like a small bird.

Before the glass mystery!

It had never been inside the room,

And only one of the two

Was afraid in a frequently recurring dream

What the tree can do.

It was too lonely for her there,

And too crazy,

And since there were only two of them,

And no kid,

And there was little work to do in the house,

She was free,

And followed where he plowed the field,

Or cut-down tree.

She sat down on a log and threw

The fresh chips,

With a song just for herself

On her lips.

And once she went to break a branch

Of black alder.

She wandered so far that she could barely hear

When he called her—

And didn’t reply––didn’t speak––

Or go back.

She got up, then ran and hid.

In the fern.

He never found her, even though he searched.

Everywhere,

And he asked at her mom's house.

Was she present?

Sudden, quick, and as light as that

The ties broke,

And he learned about endings

Near the grave.

“Oh, let’s go up the hill and freak ourselves out,

As reckless as the best of them tonight,

By setting fire to all the brush we stacked

With sticky hands waiting for rain or snow.

Oh, let’s not wait for the rain to make it safe.

The pile is ours: we pulled it branch by branch.

Down dark, winding paths between the pines.

Let’s not worry about what we do with it tonight.

Divide it? No! But burn it all together.

The way we stacked it. And let’s be the topic of conversation.

Of people drawn to windows by a light

Thrown from somewhere against their wallpaper.

Rouse them all, both the free and the not-so-free.

With saying what they want to do to us

For what they should wait until we are done.

Let’s almost bring this old volcano back to life,

If that’s what the mountain ever was––

And scare ourselves. Let wild fire loose we will....”

“And scare you too?” the kids said in unison.

“Why wouldn’t it scare me to have a fire

Begin in smudge with ropy smoke and know

That still, if I regret it, I can take it back,

But in a moment, not: a brief burst

Of burning fat, and then nothing but

The fire itself can put it out, and that

By burning out, and before it burns out

It will have roared first and mixed sparks with stars,

And swinging around it with a glowing sword,

Made the dim trees pull back into a wider circle––

Done so much, and I have no idea how much more there is to do.

I mean it won’t work if I can control it.

Well, if it doesn’t bring on its draft...

A wind blowing seriously from some direction,

As it once did for me in April.

The breezes were so tired from the winter winds.

They seemed to let down the bluebirds below them.

Short of the perch they were lazily flying toward;

And my flame reached a peak to the sky.

As I walked around it once, feeling that it was mine.

But the wind outside—you know the saying.

There came a gust. You used to think the trees

Made wind by fanning since you never knew

It was amazing that you could see the trees moving.

Something or someone watching caused that gust.

It pointed the flame down and dabbed the grass.

Of overwinter with the least contact

Your tongue provides salt or sugar in your hand.

The spot it reached turned black right away.

The black was all there was in daylight,

That and the slightest curl of cigarette smoke––

And a flame as slender as the hepaticas,

Bloodroot and violets are about to bloom now.

But the black spread like a deadly plague on the ground,

And I think the sky got dark with a cloud.

Like winter and evening arriving at the same time.

There were plenty of things to think about back then.

Where the field extends to the north

And at the setting sun by Hyla Brook, I gave it

To flames without a second thought, where it edges

Upon the road, to flames too, though in fear

They might find fuel there, in dried-up underbrush,

Grass its full length, old silver goldenrod,

And alder and grapevine tangle,

To jump over the dusty deadline. For my own

I took what little space there was beside me. I knelt

And shoved my hands in and pushed my face away.

Fight such a fire by rubbing, not by hitting.

A board is the best tool if you have one.

I had my coat. And oh, I knew, I knew,

And said out loud, I couldn't stand the suffocation.

And the heat was so close in; but the thought of all

The woods and the town are on fire near me, and everyone...

The town came together to support me––that really impacted me.

I trusted the brook barrier, but feared

The road would collapse; and on that side, the fire

Died not without the sound of crackling wood––

Of something more than dry grass and weeds––

That got me up on my feet to stop it.

By leaning back myself, as if the reins

Were around my neck and I was at the plow.

I won! But I’m sure no one ever spread

Another color covering more than one-tenth of the area

That I covered in coal-black at the time

It took me. Neighbors coming home from town

Couldn’t believe that so much darkness had gathered there.

While their backs were turned, it wasn't there.

When they had passed about an hour or so before

Going the other way and they haven't seen it.

They looked around for someone who could have done it.

But there was no one. I was somewhere lost in thought.

Where had all my exhaustion gone and why?

I felt so light on my feet even though I was wearing heavy shoes.

In spite of a scorching Fourth of July vibe.

Why wouldn't I be scared thinking about that?

“If it scares you, what will it do to us?”

“Scare you. But if you shy away from being scared,

What would you say to war if it came?

That's what I'm curious about—

If you can give me some comfort with your answer.

“Oh, but war isn’t for kids––it’s for men.”

“Now we are digging nearly all the way to China.

My friends, my friends, you thought that—we all thought it.

So your mistake was also ours. Haven’t you heard, though,

About the ships where war has discovered them

At sea, near the towns where war has arrived

Through opening clouds at night with buzzing speed

Further overhead than all but stars and angels,––

And what about the children in the ships and the towns?

Haven’t you heard what we’ve come to understand?

Nothing so new—something we had forgotten:

War impacts everyone, including children.

I wasn't going to tell you, and I shouldn't.

The best way is to come up the hill with me.

And let’s have our fire, laugh, and feel scared.

A neighbor of mine in the village

Likes to share how one spring

When she was a girl on the farm, she did

A childish thing.

One day she asked her dad

To create a garden bed for her

To plant, care for, and harvest by herself,

And he said, “Why not?”

Searching for a corner

He came up with a minor idea.

Of enclosed land where a store used to be,

And he said, “That's it.”

And he said, “That should make you

A perfect one-girl farm.

And give you a chance to build some strength

On your slim-jim arm.

It wasn’t a big enough garden,

Her dad said, to plow;

So she had to do everything manually,

But she doesn’t mind now.

She pushed the manure in the wheelbarrow.

On a stretch of road;

But she always ran away and left

Her unpleasant burden.

And hid from anyone walking by.

And then she begged the seed.

She says she thinks she planted one.

Of everything but weed.

A hill of potatoes,

Radishes, lettuce, peas,

Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn,

And even fruit trees.

And yes, she's long been suspicious

That a cider apple tree

In carrying that today is hers,

Or at least might be.

Her crop was a mix

When everything was settled,

A bit of everything,

A whole lot of nothing.

Now when she sees in the village

How things go in the village,

Just when it seems to fit perfectly,

She says, “I know!”

It’s like when I was a farmer–––”

Oh, definitely not as advice!

And she never does wrong by sharing the story.

To the same person again.

You were always discovering some new game.

So when I saw you down on all fours

In the meadow, bustling with the freshly cut hay,

Trying, I thought, to stand it upright,

I went to show you how to make it last,

If that was what you had in mind, going against the wind,

And, if you asked me, even help pretend

To make it take root again and grow anew.

But it wasn’t pretend with you today,

Nor was the grass itself your real concern,

Though I found your hand full of wilted fern,

Steel-bright June grass and darkening clover heads.

’Twas a nest full of baby birds on the ground

The cutter-bar had just gone crunching over

(Miraculously without eating flesh)

And left vulnerable to the heat and light.

You wanted to give them back their rights.

Of something placed between their view

And too much world at once––could means be found.

The nest moved every time we stirred.

Stood up to us like a mother bird.

Whose return has been long delayed,

Made me wonder if the mother bird would come back.

And take care of them in such a different setting

And could our interference make her even more scared?

That was something we couldn't wait to find out.

We recognized the risk involved in doing good,

But we didn't hold back in trying our best.

Though it might cause harm; that's how the screen was built

You started and returned their shade to them.

All this to show we cared. So why is there then

No more to say? We moved on to other topics.

I don’t have any memory—do you?—

Of ever coming to this place again

To check if the birds made it through the first night,

And so, finally, to learn how to use their wings.

The buzz-saw roared and shook in the yard

And created dust and dropped pieces of firewood the length of a stove,

Sweet-smelling stuff when the breeze blew over it.

And from there, those who looked up could count

Five mountain ranges, one after the other.

Under the sunset in Vermont.

And the saw growled and shook, growled and shook,

As it drove lightly or had to carry a load.

And nothing happened: the day was almost over.

Call it a day, I wish they would have said.

To make the boy happy by giving him the half hour

That a boy matters so much when saved from work.

His sister stood next to them in her apron.

To call them for "Supper." At the word, the saw,

As if to show that saws understood what dinner was,

Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap––

He must have given his hand. No matter how it was,

Neither of them turned down the meeting. But the hand!

The boy’s first cry was a bittersweet laugh,

As he turned toward them with his hand raised

Half appealing, but half like it's meant to be held back

The life from spilling. Then the boy saw everything––

Since he was old enough to understand, big boy

Doing a man’s work, even though still a child at heart––

He saw everything ruined. “Don’t let him chop off my hand––

The doctor, when he arrives. Don’t let him, sis!”

So. But the hand was already gone.

The doctor put him under anesthesia.

He lay there, blowing out air through his lips.

And then—the observer of his heartbeat got scared.

No one believed. They listened to his heartbeat.

Little—less—nothing!—and that was that.

No more to build on there. And they, since they

Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

Brown lived on a mountaintop farm

That everyone for miles could see

His lantern while he did his chores

In winter after 3:30 PM.

And many must have seen him make

His reckless fall from there one night,

’Cross lots, ’cross walls, ’cross everything,

Describing circles of lantern light.

Between the house and barn, the strong wind

I caught him by something he was wearing.

And blew him out on the icy surface

That took everyone by surprise, and he was gone!

Walls were all covered, trees were sparse:

He saw no reason to stay unless he made a scene.

A hole in somewhere with his heel.

But even though he tried repeatedly

And stamped his foot and muttered to himself,

And sometimes it felt like something gave way,

He didn’t gain any ground, but continued to pursue.

His journey from one area to another.

Sometimes he came with his arms wide open

Like wings, swirling in the scene

On his longer axis, and

With a strong sense of dignity.

Faster or slower as he happened to be,

Whether he was sitting or standing,

According to how he was afraid to take a risk

To protect his clothes, his neck,

He never let the lantern fall.

And some shouted who saw from far away.

The figures he described with it,

"I’m curious about what those signals mean."

Brown makes at such an hour of night!

He’s celebrating something unusual.

I wonder if he sold his farm,

Or been appointed as the Master of the Grange.

He staggered, he swayed, he bounced, he looked around;

He tripped and shook the lantern.

(But saved the light from going out.)

So halfway down, he fought the battle.

In disbelief about his own bad luck.

And then making amends

To everything, he let it go.

And came down like a child on a sled.

“Well—I—be—” that was all he said,

As I stand on the road by the river,

He looked back up the steep slope.

It was two miles to his place.

Sometimes as a leader

When it comes to cars, people ask me if I

Should say our stock has run out,

And this is my genuine response:

Yankees are still what they've always been.

Don't think Brown ever gave up hope.

Of getting home again because

He just couldn't climb that slippery slope;

Or even thought about standing there

Until the January warm-up

Should remove the shine from the crust.

He elegantly recognized natural law,

And then walked around it.

In the manner of our kind;

Not really worried about those to whom,

At that time,

It must have looked like the course

He drove straight ahead

From where he was headed––

I don't really care about them, I say;

No more than what became a man––

And politician during strange times.

I’ve made Brown stand in the cold.

While I explained to him;

But now he blinked his eyes three times;

Then he shook his lantern, saying, “Ile’s

’Bout out!” and took the long way home

It's several miles by road.

There caught up to me and pulled me in

To his downhill, early-morning walk,

And set me five miles down my path

Better than if he had made me ride,

A man with a swinging bag for carrying his load

And half the bag wrapped around his hand.

We talked like barking above the noise.

We walked beside the water.

And for telling him where I’d been

And where I lived in the mountains

To be coming home like I was,

He shared some details about himself.

He came from farther up in the pass.

Where the flow of the new beginnings streams

Is blocks split off the mountain mass––

And it looks like plenty of hopeless grist.

Ever to grind the soil for grass.

(The way it is will do for moss.)

There he had built his makeshift shack.

It must have been a stolen shack.

Because of the fears of fire and loss

That disturbs the sleep of lumber workers:

Visions of half the world burned black

And the sun was a shrunken yellow in the smoke.

We know who they are when they come to town.

Bring the berries under the wagon seat,

Or a basket of eggs at their feet;

What this guy brought in a cotton bag

Was gum, the gum of the mountain spruce.

He showed me chunks of the fragrant stuff

Like uncut gems, dull and rough.

It arrives on the market a golden brown;

But it turns pink between the teeth.

I told him that this is a nice life.

To press your chest against the bark of trees

That all your days are dark beneath,

And reaching up with a small knife,

To loosen the resin and bring it down

And take it to market whenever you want.

Here comes the line-gang.

They throw a forest down less chopped than shattered.

They plant dead trees for a living, and the dead

They connect with a vibrant thread.

They set up an instrument against the sky

Where words are either hammered out or spoken

Will run as quietly as when they were just an idea.

But they don’t keep it quiet: they just move on.

With distant shouts to tighten the cable,

To grip it tightly until they secure it,

To relax—they've got it. With a laugh,

An oath of towns that disregarded the wild

They bring the phone and the telegram.

He is said to have been the last Native American

In Acton. And the Miller is said to have laughed––

If you want to call that sound a laugh.

But he didn't grant anyone else the right to laugh.

For he suddenly became serious as if to say,

“Whose business,––if I take it on myself,

Whose business is it— but why beat around the bush?—

When it’s just that I prefer to get things done.

You can’t go back and see it the way he saw it.

It’s a long story that I can’t get into right now.

You really had to be there and experience it.

Then you wouldn’t have seen it as just an issue

Of who started it between the two races.

Some surprised grunt

The Red Man gave in to exploring the mill.

Over the huge, heavy, thumping, shuffling millstone

Disgusted the Miller physically as coming

From someone who had no reason to speak up.

“Come on, John,” he said, “do you want to see the wheel pit?”

He led him down under a cramped rafter,

And showed him through a manhole in the floor,

The water in a panic like frantic fish,

Salmon and sturgeon, thrashing with their tails.

Then he closed the trap door that had a ring in it.

That stood out even above the usual noise,

And came upstairs alone—and gave that laugh,

And said something to a guy with a meal sack.

That the guy with the food bag didn’t catch––then.

Oh, yes, he definitely showed John the wheel pit.

The three stood listening to a fresh access

Of wind that pressed against the house for a moment,

Gulped snow, and then blew it out again—the Coles

Dressed but looking a bit messy from a few hours of sleep,

Meserve was mocked for the big fur coat he wore.

Meserve was the first to speak. He pointed behind

Over his shoulder with his pipe-stem, saying,

“You can see it bouncing off the roof.

Making a sweeping motion up toward the sky,

Long enough to write down all our names on.––

I think I’ll just call my wife and tell her.

I’m here—so far—and starting over again.

I’ll call her gently so that if she’s smart

And gone to sleep, she didn’t need to wake up to answer.

Three times he lightly rang the bell, then listened.

“Why, Lett, are you still awake? Lett, I’m at Cole’s. I’m running late.”

I called you to say goodnight from here.

Before I went to say good morning there.––

I thought I would.––I know, but, Lett––I know––

I could, but what’s the point? The rest won’t be.

So bad.––Give me an hour for it.––Ha, ha,

Three hours to get here! But it was all uphill;

The rest is down.––No, no, not a pity party:

They stayed calm and took their time with it.

Like darlings, both of them. They’re in the barn.––

My dear, I'm still coming. I didn't

Call you to ask you to invite me over.––”

He hung around waiting for her to say something she wouldn't.

Said it at last himself, “Goodnight,” and then,

Getting no answer, he hung up the phone.

The three stood in the light of the lamp around the table.

With lowered eyes for a moment until he said,

“I'll just check on the horses.”

“Sure, go ahead,”

Both the Coles said together. Mrs. Cole

“You can judge better after seeing.”

I want you here with me, Fred. Leave him here,

Brother Meserve. You know how to find your way.

Out through the shed.

“I guess I know my way,

I guess I know where to find my name.

Carved in the shed to show me who I am

If it doesn’t tell me where I am, I used

To play—

“You take care of your horses and then come back.

Fred Cole, you’re actually going to let him do that!”

“Well, aren’t you?”

How can you help yourself?

“I called him Bro.”

Why did I call him that?

“It’s good enough.

That’s all you ever heard people call him around here.

He seems to have lost his first name.

“Christian enough, I would call myself that.”

He didn't pay any attention, did he? Well, at least

I didn't use it because I loved him,

The dear knows. I hate the thought of him.

With his ten kids all under ten years old.

I hate his miserable little Racker Sect,

All I've ever heard about it isn't much.

But that’s not saying––Look, Fred Cole, it's twelve,

Isn't it? He's been here for half an hour.

He says he left the village store at 9.

Three hours to travel four miles –– that's just a mile per hour.

Or not much better. Why, it doesn’t seem

As if a guy could move that slowly and still be moving.

Try to imagine what he did with all that time.

And three more miles to go!”

"Don’t let him leave."

Stick with him, Helen. Make him reply to you.

That kind of guy speaks honestly his whole life.

From the last thing he said himself, completely deaf

To whatever anyone else might say.

I should have thought, though, you could get him to hear you.

“What is he doing out on a night like this?

Why can't he just stay home?

“He had to give a sermon.”

“It’s not a good night to be out.”

"He's small,"

He might be nice, but one thing's for sure, he's tough.

“And strong of stale smoke.”

“He’ll get through.”

“You only say that. Not another house

Or shelter to take refuge from this place

To theirs. I'm going to call his wife again.

“Wait and he might. Let’s see what he’ll do.

Let’s see if he thinks of her again.

But then I doubt he's thinking about himself.

He doesn’t see it as anything.

“He shouldn’t go––there!”

“It’s a night, my dear.”

“One thing: he didn’t involve God in it.”

“He doesn’t see it as a matter for God.”

“You think so, huh? You have no idea what it’s like.”

He’s creating a miracle right now.

Privately––to himself, right now, he’s thinking

He'll make a big deal out of it if he succeeds,

But stay quiet if he messes up.

Stay still everywhere.

He’ll be dead—dead and buried.

"What a hassle!"

Not that I have any reason to care.

What happens to him if it only takes

Some of the self-righteous arrogance

Out of one of those self-righteous troublemakers.

“Nonsense to that! You want to make sure he’s safe.”

“You like the little one.”

"Don't you a bit?"

“Well,

I don’t like what he’s doing, which is what

You like him, and that's why.

“Oh, yes you definitely do.

You enjoy having fun just like anyone else;

Only you women have to act superior.

To impress guys. You've made us feel so ashamed.

Of being men, we can't resist a good fight.

Between two boys and not feel obligated to stop it.

Let the guy freeze an ear or two, I say.––

He’s here. I’m leaving him all to you. Go ahead.

And save his life. –– All right, come in, Meserve.

Sit down, sit down. How did you find the horses?

"Okay, okay."

“And ready for some more? My wife here

Says it won't work. You need to let it go.

“Will you please me? Please! If I say please?”

Mr. Meserve, I’ll leave it to your wife.

What did your wife say on the phone?”

Meserve appeared to pay attention to nothing except the lamp.

Or something similar on the table.

By straightening and raising a forefinger,

He pointed with his hand from where it was.

Like a crumpled white spider on his knee:

“That leaf there in your open book! It moved

Just then, I thought. It’s standing up like that,

There on the table, ever since I arrived,

Trying to turn itself backward or forward,

I’ve been keeping an eye on it to figure out which one;

If moving ahead, then it’s with a friend's impatience––

You see, I understand—how to get you into things.

It wants to see how you will respond, if you go back.

It’s from regret for something you’ve missed.

And couldn't see the good in it. Never mind,

Things must expect to come in front of us

A lot of times—I won’t say exactly how many—

That changes with things––before we see them.

One of the lies would claim that nothing

Ever shows up in front of us twice.

Where would we end up if that were the case?

Our very life depends on everything’s

Recurring until we find the answers within ourselves.

The thousandth time might be the charm.––That leaf!

It can't move on its own. It needs the wind to help it.

But the wind didn’t move it if it did move.

It moved on its own. The wind isn’t blowing in here.

It couldn’t move so delicately balanced

A thing like that. It couldn’t reach the lamp.

To get a puff of black smoke from the flame,

Or mess up the collie’s coat.

You create a small square block of air,

Quiet, bright, and warm, despite everything.

The endless dark, cold, and storm,

And by doing so, give these three—lamp, dog,

And book-leaf, that you keep close by, their rest;

Though for all anyone can tell, rest

May be the thing you don't have, yet you give it.

So untrue it is that what we don't have we can't give;

So untrue that what we always say is true.

I’ll have to flip the page if no one else will.

It won't back down. Then let it stay. Who cares?

“I don’t want to rush you, Meserve,

But if you’re leaving––Just say you’ll stick around, you know?

But let me reveal this scene,

And show you how it's stacking up against you.

You see the snow-white against the white of the frost?

Ask Helen how far up the window it's climbed.

Since we last read the gauge.

"It seems that"

Some pale thing had flattened its features.

And its eyes shut with excessive eagerness

To see what people found so fascinating

In each other's company, and had fallen asleep.

Of its own foolish lack of understanding,

Or broken its white neck of mushroom material

Short off, and died against the windowpane.”

“Brother Meserve, be careful, you might scare yourself.”

More than you will us with such scary talk.

It’s you that matters, because it’s you.

Who has to go out into it alone.

“Let him talk, Helen, and maybe he’ll stick around.”

“Before you close the curtain––I’m reminded:

You remember the boy who came out here

To breathe the air one winter––had a room

Down at the Averys'? Well, one sunny morning

After a fluffy storm, he walked by our place.

And found me piling up snow around the house.

And I was digging in deep for warmth,

Piling it high above the window sills.

The snow outside the window caught his attention.

‘Hey, that’s a nice thought’––those were his words.

'So you can think it’s six feet deep outside,

While you sit comfortably and read about balanced diets.

You can't have too much winter in the winter.

Those were his words. Then he went home and all

But blocked the daylight from coming through Avery’s windows.

Now you and I wouldn't go to such extremes.

At the same time, you can’t deny it makes

It’s not any worse, sitting here, the three of us,

Playing our fancy, to have the snowline run

So high across the window outside. There where

There’s a kind of tunnel in the frost

More like a tunnel than a hole—way down

At the far end of it, you notice some movement.

And tremble like the frayed edge of the drift

Blown in the wind. I like that––I like that.

Well, now I’m leaving you, everyone.

"Come on, Meserve,"

We thought you decided not to go––

The ways you found to express the appreciation of comfort

And being where you are. You want to stay.

“I’ll admit it’s cold for this much snow in the fall.”

This house is incredibly fragile, except for

This room you’re in. If you think the wind

Sounds farther away, it's not because it's fading;

You’re deeper in the snow—that’s all—

And feel it less. Hear the gentle thuds of dust

It bursts against us at the top of the chimney,

And at the edge. I like it from the inside.

More than I’ll say about it. But the horses