by James Maynard
We lingered four thousand nights beneath an unmoving sky.
Rut and root and bark. Fruit bursting from our limbs.
And without speech we swayed, a system written
For the choirs of leaf we named the shattering.
As the afternoon’s white yellow split into blue.
As beneath the shards he sang his dark song
And the earth drew its haunches up to hear. Terrifying.
One who was us a willow tree sighed her hair loose.
The farmhouse collapsed. Saplings rose in the silos.
He slept in the wild grass, dreams twisting out under him,
Robin-chested tricksters and black river gods
Feeding our root till all went wild. The dryads fell in
And out of love. The floor was spongy with the dead.
For an instant. Like a field had collapsed unnoticed
So we sank into the front lawn above the pond
We had cooled in, drinking the farmer’s beer.
A perfect season grown mossy with delight.
Then it was over. As if the air swallowed it.
We stood in the sunlight, shaking off his lure.
And were. Not forgotten in the earth below.
Returned to what had charmed us to this hurt —
Lung and chain, bone and frame, wheel and straining heart.
~ for P. Campbell, RAGBRAI, 2018