Poetry from Lost Roads PublishersRiver Geography at First Hand
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The timber they kept back I. The wild yerba tree with bird-life: The drink is prepared boiling water over a spoonful of leaves. Yerba gathers. We from the shore. Of water lilies, a white flower (resembling the orange blossom.) Nearer a mild climate riverbathing sounded into night. Girls carried lace frames to predict the wind. And only on the waters, (it is their own story) the timber they kept back. Or that insect, our nights in these. The second child in sketched muslin. These are the simplest textiles, early stages, of the rivers themselves. We enter barefoot, our shoes in boxes beneath the floor. To whose special history? On the foothills, East we catch the moisture. The difference past rooms into cedar and pine. I recall the name. Old stone houses, of an ancient weathered appearance. II. Women wait beneath branches. (The rivers laid down in Dutch charts are only creeks.) We, in the boat, extending Northward from the land. In the distance go picking flowers themselves and fall slowly. One morning, a story of walking in the apple orchard. We are replaced at this point in the journey with skins, sinews and bones of sheep. Its blossoms, the variegated rose, with her, as the Rowan trees planted encircling a house. She refers to the edges of a waterhole. With the sequence of foothills, and a forest belt, I think of larger canoes. (This voice in summer's light.) III. (They will urge her soon to write her name in a book.) Outside she gathers branches to walk the hopyard. Three days a fever and She carried to the river one morning about sunrise. There is a boat were days on a frozen field. The white wall rose blooms. As the flower of the crape myrtle has and is everywhere open. Another branch of the river runs Northward in a region of scattered trees. (Their grey faces to the windows.) Songs of birds, to follow the road. Transported to another quarter of the fine old half-timbered dwelling. IV. Its blossoms with her, a remedy strained from herbs. On the slopes of a flowering meadow: Think of sea-weed and larger footprints beyond the threshold. Two women dream: Point-blank, her birthplace pulled down. Seven years and the smell of powder. The large sparrow sings. Who admired strange birds than this? We stand the shade, insect sounds, but the oaks are motionless. She fed marmalade and conserves to the sick. (The chronicles on church walls.) A voyage, to wit, the young mountain woman down from the hill frams to become the ground. (There is a sparrow that wakes seven minutes sooner than the lark.) It is a bird of the mountains. On the contents of her basket, in short, her inward parts. A mid-wife whose chamber faced westward. Here are the blossoms of the apricot and she toward the window, outstripping sea-men with heavy steps. We move southward by means of a creek which comes out in the form of a spring. She recalls the name and river obstacles six days after the moon has passed. V. The canal too far with downcast eyes. This morning the squabbling of wild geese and a half-mile of green. At dusk our chartered haven for bird-life of rain Northward at four miles. Under bridges to summer's haze. The rain begins. (A row of crape myrtles line what was the dooryard of an old house place.) Here, a grove of sumacs North and blackberries we pick in rain. Not to sell these woods. It is dark countryside. We trace the old routes when nights still freeze and the sap rises. This is a staple sweet whose narrowboats were dark. He courted her three years up and down the canals. And they say April, who flock. Jacobs home page Things not explicitly remembered
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