Poem: A THOUSAND WRONG WAYS

A THOUSAND WRONG WAYS

Richard's good-humored holsteins
flyswat their way through the summer trees
down into the dry run and up again
following the residual logic of a thousand wrong
          ways

green-grinding up the clovered hill
pretending not to see the log house
window-framed and redwood-skirted
right before their placidly amused
          eyes

trying the tender Kentucky bluegrass
where the house stood for a century
tending summer cuds and ignoring history
curious instead how men will slice wood and set it
          sideways

Once, along the same way up the hill
there beside the shag bark hickory
the last Oneota saw the first white man
hew oak logs, fitted like fingers
          crossed

and turned and went down through the trees again
south and west up the small draw
pursued by green-wood smoke and manifest
          destiny

there where Richard's holsteins went today
here where only these ancient logs
          remember

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