Revisit the Hills

Strange terrain —
empty intervals, variations
of doubtful houses.

Duties of spiritual
winters, then some kind
of necessary light.

As earth began to end,
cows and horses
spoke quietly in tongues.

Old dogs barked up
trails that turned back
after four corners.

Bright fortunes flowed —
hours of children’s poems
became vigils of love.

Ladies wreathed
greens as public displays
in town and country.

Prophetic precepts retold
parables of manners
found in few happy homes.

Cold moons glowed
for girls who heard colors
in the turkey pen.

Church folk kept
their ears to the ground,
craving raw honey.

Too consistent evenings
shortened the seasons
when they lived upcountry.

Intermittent snowfall
filled the cabbage patch
then January thawed.

Winter friends lost a lot
— a boot’s a boot —
then springtime melted.

Radiant heavenly bodies
(no longer available)
had gone to the beach.

They found lucky stones,
connected distant dots,
brought folks together.

After long marriages,
bountiful crops of babies
grew to mow the fields.

Bereft fish-wives paddled
from room to room
in silent boats of hours.

Scores of old pamphlets
left by itinerant preachers
littered damp caverns.

Numberless monks died
after halfway poems
nurtured other minds.

Camouflaged hunters
hid themselves in forest blinds,
waiting for easy prey.

Infernos became bones
left alongside the Contoocook
— placed near river pines.

Children of others’ wars
rested among the Isles of Shoals,
their graves unmarked.

Seeding simple kindness
some women’s works
live far beyond the gates.

Awakening to shadows,
they mend worn woolen socks
as songbirds flit about.

Listen, little loves —
outgoing winds cross over
all the same rivers.

So, remember latent lullabies
as darkness moves on
scorching new horizons.

For now whatever rushes by
— only waves of oblivion
returning to the sea.

. . . . .

Poet: Susan Powers Bourne
Source: Women.Poets.New.Hampshire
Process: Augmented cento