Roots

It's easy to believe you can go back

Whenever you desire, jump in the car

And drive, arrive at dusk—the hour

You recall most vividly—and walk

Among the buildings spread across the farm,

Out toward the pastures, woods, and fields.

There is music in the leaves, in the dense

Columns of green corn. The wind lays down

The tune. You can play it, too, simply

By walking with eyes closed, arms

Stretched out, lightly striking the stalks.

Who wouldn't desire, like the children

Lost in so many similar fields,

To sit down on the turned earth and drift

Away on the rhythms of his own

First possible death? Rescuing

Voices come closer, veer off. Flashlight beams

Strobe over your head. You do not care.

Each building you remember—hen house,

Sheep shed, corn crib, barn—caved in upon itself,

The walls and roofs collapsing with a final

Percussive clap, since you last walked those fields.

No one you will ever know works that land now.

It is as green as Eden. Life rises in the roots, in the leaves.