You don’t know. You never have gone anywhere,
they said. You have no travels. You haven’t known
women and men and customs, haven’t seen
their countries—mountains stony and low
or vast, inaccessible, covered with dawn and snow.
Their villages threatened or resting near faithful, treacherous tides.
You can’t twist and stick in their strange tongues.
Your farthest trip was from the chair to the door,
across the little creek by the bridge to the store,
to the packaged bread in cellophane with red and gold balloons.
Yes, but the wind in the treetops was the ocean.
Was sometimes the gale, the divine gale that tore
and half wrecked the very sea. Its gentle fall
soughing was the wave action in the middle ocean,
fallen asleep, and surf ’s fall on endless sand.
Under the ridge, a spring trickled from vertical rock,
darkening the shale. In those woods was a huge boat,
beached and breached. The scent of violets under the oak
leaves of last winter. I was little, I was dreaming
of righting it, caulking, painting, getting a crew
of the other children, getting it to the stream
just visible over there past the dark shade of noon,
the tangle of jewelweed and nightshade along the bank,
launching it, sailing God knows where—everywhere—
while above me was the far-travelled oriole singing.
