This is more to my liking,
This gentle spill-off of water
From the fields, snow sintering
Down to where the dandelion
Lies dreaming about its slender
White root. I’d like to lose
Myself in such weather, watching
Sparrows which are pecks of light
Flaring from their hedges.
I’d like to be able to walk
Among the ruins of scrubweed
And thistle and common dock
Without being reminded that snow
Is melting on the cold shoulders
Of mills back home in the Ohio
River valley, and on houses
The color of dark, wet leaves.
I’d rather not be reminded
Of any of what gets between me
And my love for these mild
Freshets balming the earth.
I already know what waters
Seep on down from Homestead
And Steubenville into the heart
And that nothing I do is likely
To change them. I know this thaw
Is going to sidle into winter
For a long time still to come.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going
To write down only the chronologies
Of ice, or behave as if rivers
Weren’t pure economic theory.
I can’t even watch for long
Before the gentle lave of water
Across the fields reminds me
Of my father’s people in 1892-
Those photographs from the lockout,
Millworkers watching upriver
For scabs to come riding down
The first brown froth of flood.
Leave a Reply