@3The more I see of people, the more I like my dog. And this would be good country if a man could eat scenery.@1 The lake's ice gives light back to the air, Shadows back to water. In wet years the land breathes out, And a crop of limber pines jumps into the open Like green pioneers. In dry years Beetles kill them with roadmaps Under the skin. The land breathes in. The sun goes down, And the whole sky cracks like rivermud in drought. A few trees make it each time, As if some tide carried them out, away from the others. They say a tree that falls in timber Goes down in good company: Snow drifts in and it all goes soft. @3They say a ghost is a ghost That doesn't know it's dead yet.@1 Those limber pines die standing, lightning-struck, wind broke, And enough good pitch For a hermit's winter. The cabin stood; the man was long dead. Packrats nested in the firewood, And a crowd of medicine bottles held forth on the shelf. When hermits die They close their eyes. They never hear The parson sermonize how somewhere There is hope where no hope was. Tanglefoot, Dead-On-Your-Feet, A chance to be alone for a chance to be abandoned, Everything is lost or given. @3Hermits never know they're dead till the roof falls in.@1 Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOY (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MEETING AND PASSING by ROBERT FROST REMINISCENCE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH TIMID THINGS by JOHN HAMPTON ATKINSON TO THE DEAD FAVOURITE OF LIU CH'E by DJUNA BARNES SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 3 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |