Places

  I like a line between sky and land that curves Like the surface of the earth, with ribbon lines Of harvested corn, regimented, straight rising, rising I like the clouds to be painted with a steady hand In shapes

I walk along the Paris streets in Mardi Gras, Fluttering concepts written in stone, fraternity, Egality, Liberty, I wave their passing like the old gods, And Leroy, my friend will be there in that passing, Engraved into my memory like

Cymbals and bees, descending clashing, music discordant, Mixed with hot air and blue skies, Bird song in a trough of summer; White tents, blue and red tents, yellow tents, Striped tents, full of bees and cymbals, Heat, mud lots of

I braced myself. The bitter wind lashed the windowpane, Angry it could not enter. I pulled up my hood, The zip closed against the snow I called the dog whose tail ceaselessly Like a machine plugged in, Whirred in excitement.

Out of the dark earth grew the Farmhouse, Its roots set in the tradition of goodness, Fostered with love and care No spare, that did not move In its rooms and passages, Anointing the arrival of time With small gifts