The Source
Snow deep in north pasture, more
On the way. How odd to read
Her letters, where light lies
Easy on Polynesian waves. She’s
There on the quay or under the shade
Of mango and palm, draped in a red
Pareu, listening to the liquid
Sounds of their vowels.
Here, a month of zero
Mercury and words chuffed
In little clouds drifting off
To who knows where.
My brain’s split between hemispheres.
Was there ever a year she desired
This house and pasture? Don’t lie.
Of course, of course—
And yet—just yesterday
I broke through snowcrust
On a downward-sloping field,
Broke through to a deep-running
Spring we’d discovered years ago
When we built here. That gusher
Down in the foundation—we were
Astonished at the water’s force.
Half-feared it would obliterate
Concrete, and half-desired it—
Our house balanced on a spume,
A great spinning, shining ride
In the revolving years
Of early love. It almost washed
The backhoe clean as it struck
The source. Later, the force
Lessened to a stream
Manageable and constant.
We diverted it with a simple
Lead pipe out to the field
And forgot about it.
Until now, until I broke through.
Snow falling on my blue parka,
Blue gloves, blue hat. I know
Where this stream ends—
Where all the springs drain—
Down at the bottom of the pasture
Where birches bend under all this
White weight, and swamp begins.
And nothing but willows grow
In the boggy hummocks, iced up now,
Their roots lifted up
As if trying to take a first, slow step
Out of the rime and ooze. And every living
Thing falls down into the watery spaces
They’ve abandoned.