My first night there I couldn’t sleep
from all the goldenrod I’d sniffed
playing war until it got dark
in the still-wild valley below our house,
where the Soo Line ran tanks to South Korea
those days my father stood to be called back
to active duty. My mother meanwhile
needled him about using every last
four-letter word in the book when he talked
to the home office. Swearing not to let
business become my life, I vowed to make
life my business, if on paper only.
Caterpillars had leveled Noble Grove
for our development, but across the tracks
the woods—beeches, maples, oaks remained standing.
Later, when they were stripped of green & gold
& snow fell as if for good, the charred trees
our picture window displayed like a page
of upright characters showed me
how to absorb the losses mounting daily,
the red ink in our blood, & come
out burnt yet in the black
someday, letter-perfect
when everything was said & done.
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