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Grass Hill



                         The first meadow. Easy rolling supple
                         mounds have only cared to speak hay bales
                         it seems for thousands of years.

                         But if a second look is stolen
                         like joy
                                   where gold leaves lap hallowed
                         stillness from the deer at dusk
                         through the arched entry to the spirit world--
                         the last two elm trees side-by-side--

                         if a second look is promised between them
                         like a psychic vow
                         way high to the north corner of the upper pasture
                         where the happily chattering meteor shower fell--
                         tumbled and hopped and poured
                         with the high pitched crickets
                         from the grassy chalice
                         back down the easy rolling thrush call stairwells
                         to heaven,
                         to the black eyed Susans midhill
                         bedecked and adorned wispy goldenrod blonde--
                         the cows seem to bow their heads
                         to drink the bliss.

                         What is right is right here
                         where the red clover blossom eaten
                         heals the cancerous remission,
                         right here, where, shy monarch, the butterfly renames
                         the ox-eyed daisy child love never
                         confused with lust,
                         moon green bright here
                         where mediocrity ceases to praise mediocrity
                         to glorify itself.

                         Yes, here there is no such thing as time.
                         What occurs reverses; autumn orange leaves and
                         returns;
                         the red tailed hawk rivals the sky, circles
                         a prey. Like mackeral cloud hands
                         ticking the deep blue face of a clock
                         its wings dip forward and lilt back
                         at the same speed. Ribald rock to stoic boulder
                         the bold chipmunk dashes-- folktale straight up--
                         to the woodchuck chapel hollowed beneath
                         the stump,
                         dashing to choose between two cosmic births:
                         winter hibernation, or reincarnation
                         as a dead world lying in fallow.
                         Tall yellow mullein stalks
                         soothe intermittent crow cawing whooping coughs.
                         A mumbling fumbling stonewall teases the shaggy
                         hickory trees aging bent to share their nuts
                         and hardwood loyalties.

                         Church bells tinkle shrewdly
                         in the distant romantic streams high beyond
                         the three turreted houses that crimp
                         like imitation castles 
                         unsold at the top.
                         Someone has forgotten to change
                         the crusty diapers of religion, money,
                         and countries.

                         But not Grass Hill.