by George Scarbrough

    Always in transit¹

    we were always temporarily

    in exile，

    each new place seeming

    after a while

    and for a while

    our home.

    Because no matter

    how far we traveled

    on the edge of strangeness

    in a small county，

    the earth ran before us

    down red clay roads

    blurred² with summer dust，

    banked with winter mud.

    It was the measurable，

    pleasurable earth

    that was home.

    Nobody who loved it

    could ever be really alien.

    Its tough clay， deep loam³，

    hill rocks， small flowers

    were always the signs

    of a homecoming.

    We wound down through them

    to them，

    and the house we came to，

    whispering with dead hollyhocks

    or once in spring

    sill-high in daisies，

    was unimportant.

    Wherever it stood，

    it stood in earth，

    and the earth welcomed us，

    open， gateless，

    one place as another.

    And each place seemed

    after a while

    and for a while

    our home：

    because the county

    was only a mansion⁴

    kind of dwelling⁵

    in which there were many

    rooms.

    We only moved from one

    room to another，

    getting acquainted

    with the whole house.

    And always the earth

    was the new floor under us，

    the blue pinewoods the walls

    rising around us，

    the windows the openings

    in the blue trees

    through which we glimpsed，

    always farther on，

    sometimes beyond the river，

    the real wall of the mountain，

    in whose shadow

    for a little while

    we assumed ourselves safe，

    secure and comfortable

    as happy animals

    in an unvisited lair⁶：

    which is why perhaps

    no house we ever lived in

    stood behind a fence，

    no door we ever opened

    had a key.

    It was beautiful like that.

    For a little while.

上一篇：Tenderness 下一篇：Telling the Bees