I go to the woods.
The path is a swamp, the trees still dripping.
And the creeks!
Only last week they poured smoothly,
Curled like threads about the mossy stones
And sang with the voices of birds.
Now they are swollen and driven with muds and
They gallop and steam
As though, crazed by this week of rain,
They sense ahead--and desire it--
A new life in a new land
Where vines tumble thick as ship-ropes,
The ferns grow tall as trees!
They remind me of something, some other travelers--
Two great-uncles who went west years ago
And got lost in Colorado
Looking for the good life.
I have a picture of them; each is smiling,
Glad to be young and strong.
But you never know, traveling, around what bend
The dreams will curve to an end,
And what will happen then.
It was a long time ago.
Still, watching the tame creeks boil away,
My heart in sympathy pounds like a quick hoof.
I think with pride of my uncles who went west
Full of hope and vision;
I think they became healthy as animals, and rich
as their dreams
Before they turned some corner and became
Two graves under the leaves.