He had never been content
to leave the great design
of things
to Nature's realm and whim.
The
hills were his
to decorate or leave alone.
His choice to populate
a lea with clover, or let
daisies go across
to yonder yard.
In spring when grass was
all but nothing,
he would wish it tall wheat
and in bloom.
In autumn he would send it
back to innocence again.
Alfalfa also moved from
yellow out of seed
to yellow
harvest.
No verdant undertaking
and no knowledge, So
no regret.
With clover
coming out of earth
already lavender on top,
the birds
confused,
sputtering, muttering amid
what should be ragweed
but was not,
no wonder rain
kept holding back until
it spilled from only
holding back.
If nature's days seemed
quartered, left unchecked,
There was cause. Too
much is made of natural
seasons, their clime
and chime.
The sky was his as if
imagined out of
his thought only.
Why not the wind?
Sometimes he had it
blow back recollections
of old stones.
An agate. A hollow rock.
A marble crumb that
wanted so to be a palace.
A hapless bit of limestone
nearly ground to nothing
by one too many breezes
in one too many times.
He would listen
as non-apparent streams
rolled over memory rocks.
His mind would polish
every orphan stone
not touched by wind,
by water,
as if a thought caress could
make up for lack of gravel,
family life.
Other winds were always
breathing down
some hidden valley's neck
or making mischief,
talking grief, in far towns
without high fences. Why
not give his breeze
a useful job
like jeweler's shammy?
What harm could
purpose do?
So much for sand
that would be boulders,
left to time.
I promise to remember
to forget my promise.
It is the least a man
can do.
I would do more, he said,
but can't. |
