Friday, January 2, 2015

Bucolic memory

Greenfield Village

Henry Ford looms large
The length of River Rouge
Lower and Middle and Upper and Rouge River proper
Abraded by scars
Mouth cankered and scowling
Zug Island wrenched
To permanent sneer
Behind the kid gloved hand of his beloved Fairlane.
He wandered Potemkin near the end
Head an empty lot
Webbed in figure eights of snowy plaque.
We walked down the lane
From Firestone Farm
Past stubble field
Late one winter afternoon
Searching for the rope swing
In the old chestnut tree
Ordered put there perhaps
By the old man himself.
I raced twilight
Edges dissolving 
Pushed you higher and higher
Prayed you might catch a glimpse
Of the abiding light that silvers
The edge the world. 

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