Neil Shepard




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.