Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Suppose

Suppose this is not mortar, 
but hardened sand from 
the edge of a great lake. 
Suppose someone walked 
the white beach, with the same 
high arched foot that I have, 
the same five toes. Imagine 
clam holes in the wet sand. 
Him bending over, digging down, 
hunting for zebra mussels and mitten crabs.  
His back darkened from the sun, 
fingers lean and strong. 

Suppose this not brick but 
hardened soil from the earth below us. 
Suppose someone gathered 
summer fruit from the land, 
gooseberries and ground-cherries. 
Calamus and tuckahoe in her pouch.
The full buck moon rising over 
her brown shoulder.   

Suppose both could peer inside the
ninety year old schoolhouse, 
children with vinegar volcanoes,
tarantula and turtles in glass boxes,
lunch served on styrofoam plates.  
Bells ding ding dinging, 
as time is sliced and portioned. 
So much sitting and reading, 
while the earth is singing,
and the creek is babbling, 
and the fat robin waits to lay her eggs. 

Suppose we could return every
thing to its native place,
the sand to the cheeks of Erie, 
the clay to the creek, 
the children to the sun, 
the learning to living, 
and time back to two things:  
the sun and the moon, 
darkness always awakening to light. 



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