Poetry

This land is heavy with sleeping generations
Of young forefathers who thrust back the hills
And cleared their pastures of blackberry blossoms, planting

Deep roll the breakers where we run
  Along the sands,
And up the blue deep rolls the sun
  From sunny lands.

Dusky and strong,
You lift high your branches,
Mighty magnolia;

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

Beloved, practice patience with this tongue,
Restricted to a single argument.
O, suffer that the voice has left unsung

Children’s voices in the orchard
Between the blossom- and the fruit-time:
Golden head, crimson head,

Levi’s needed to convince those who are about to jump the designer ship to buy their cheaper version. Their go-to was a man from the first generation of Brooklyn hipsters.

See the trees lean to the wind’s way of learning.
See the dirt of the hills shape to the water’s way of learning.
See the lift of it go the way the biggest
wind and the strongest water want it.

Gold buttons in the garden today—
Among the brown-eyed susans the golden spiders are gambling.
The blue sisters of the white asters speak to each other.