Everyone who came before him
Brush arbor preachers opening the light
Mothers and grandmothers making all things possible
Holding everyone together in dustbowl migration, unemployment
Preventing general aimlessness, ruthlessly rationing love
Dirt farmers praying for rain and cursing the dark
London brass polisher choking his lungs out at thirty-five
Carrying a foreign name in a far-off strange country
Farther back, to the beginning,
Beginning of whatever this is,
Gatherers and fishers, hunters and clerks, holy women
And debauched uncles
The world as frustratingly sad as a broken anthill
Vanished trout streams, lost mountains
The old burned to make the new
But he could still stack up stones from fallen old houses
New roofbeams of poetry grow among the neglected trees
Old prayers take on new relevance dredged from a broken past
Cardboard sign out begging for gas along I25, kid’s toys left neglected
At the last house they lived in, skipping out on the rent
Making out for a new place where they’ll find a better job,
New house, new car, green grass, summer and song never ending
Author: Duncan MacNae
Exiled Gael, scion of the Dust Bowl, dweller within Divine Grace, admirer of mountains, I have made my peace with trout and the starlings. Looking for a river and healing trees.
duncanmacduncan5@gmail.com
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