Below the elm, whole on that hill,
My father’s house abides me still;
A parcel of its shade could grace
The mound I moved to found this place.
I look back now and see the door
Scarred by the arrowheads of war
I urged all day from tree to road
And ambushed Time there, like a god,
And beat the brush for painted men,
King Philip’s demons. Candid then
To kill or keep I ran that field
Of paintbrush with my youth for shield.
When shadows found me at their foot
I walked that darkness to its root
And crossed a threshold and a shade
Dark in my blood, by that blood made.
When morning broke I took my lot
And striding with the day I thought
To match the sunlight with my own:
I had not thought to die alone.
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