IN PASSING

Over the ever fields
Hovering just above the green and rainings
My ancestors from every country alive
Squint bird-like to see me
Or tie loops to finish their calling
And then rows upon rows of bending
They pull me up onto their backs
Over the ever fields
And take me into the skins of apples
The spreading of limbs
The grains of my longing
This is to say I say to myself
Where I will be coming.

In passing
I see how all of the otherwise matters—
There’s the sweet wasted edge of the fields at last
And the life I’ve always been after
Half way between the law and the wind—
In the end If I am an orphan or wrong
It’s the tree-type kind
That doesn’t know any better
Someday I say out loud to myself
I will be careful
But not just yet
Not with the fields full of spirits and daring.

World that there is
There’s little to keep me
No onions or signals or low leaning skies
And as much as I’d like to
I’ll never be branches out over
The fields of my families and betters.

No, this part of the ages is pulling and tugging me
As soup does to history
As land does to eyes.

—Hiram Larew (CC ’93)