I Am the Oldest of Six


A dynasty that spread out flat, not deep,

A generation’s flood that filled the swamp,

Cultural lowlands into which we oozed,

Places of fertility, of decay.


The saltmarsh plant knows nothing of itself;

It harbors moisture as a matter of course,

There to cushion wandering pilgrim feet

Happy it’s been used, not knowing pain.


I jumped into the river at high tide,

Felt cold ribbons of ocean on my limbs,

Gasped and laughed in sacramental glee.

Cleansed, I could begin my work again.


But wisdom was hard-won and strangely dry.

I became the pause, the rocks in sun.

Showing the others how to be or not.

My stone tears were for me as well as them.


I dreampt of flying over shipwreck scenes

And private murders tacitly ignored,

To soar on, wildly off-course and scared,

Tumbling onto fields of prairie grass.


Amber waves of grain I couldn’t pluck

Purple mountains frightening and high

Insecticidal scent on fruited plain,

I waited for warm rain from spacious skies.


It isn’t god, or love, or an ideal

That seeds the wish to serve and makes it swell.

It’s merely natural for those inclined,

And that’s not everyone; it’s just as well.


Plus, I could be lying, I have often done,

Making light of what’s within, without.

All flows into the marsh and starts again;

Loves us, and not the “self,” and drinks us down.



October 2004