THE REFUGEES
After the burning nights and the barren speech,
after the dry wind through stony streets,
we found our little green where lilies were,
and knee-deep oxen stood watching us
triumphant under trees. For this was peace
as nature meant nature's peace to be,
with fruitful soil made ready by its need,
with instincts tamed in gentler ways than fear,
with freedom measured freely as the sky
measures breath. We lay there side by side
breathing kisses, feeling the wet and cool
of bodies grassed in loving, each a groove
within a groove, seeking counterpart,
with close-open-close, with light-in-dark
and waves lapping. We heard the overflow
of lake down buttressed dam and sluiced walls
making music in ditches, singing birth
to seed in spike, to trunk in root, one surge
alike in all. Then, happily, we chose
which way, and barefoot climbed the gold
to tip the rim of that day's widened
cup, before the darkness could descend
to cheat our purpose. Together, all of us swam,
caught in a shower of light that fell on hands
and hoofs, on flesh and hide—the rainbow now
a shore towards which we moved with one accord.
And the sun ceased fire and lowered its arms,
promising new terms for our tomorrow.
SHIP OF EARTH
This earthship, which we now sail on seas
of time and space, aware of other tides
and stars and winds than move about us here,
is smaller than we dreamed. Once, its high
mountain masts pierced infinity,
as we rode, bow into future, and past
at our stern, a vessel without peer
in the universe, the first, the last!
The sails gave way to engines, the spars to wings,
the continental coasts to cosmic shores,
and still we see no end to journeying.
Although our rocket shrinks, we keep our course.
We watch, we sleep, our dream a toylike thing
that wakes and wonders—-whose will, which force?
AMONG THE PASSENGERS
1
Through the window of the bus, he combs a field,
close-shaves the bristling oats, straps in a fence line,
pockets adjoining timber, then rides into the morning,
pleased.
Now retired and let out to pasture, he
does not mind the clouds, the rain that fogs the highway—
his eyes are patched with blue.
Hands leathered and roped,
knees astraddle, boots shined, he is seated beside
as neat a filly as any in the herd he used to lope
in season.
With stallion gallantry, with sweets, he holds
the miles to coffee stops and anecdotes ... till memory
spurs his old man's hopes ... and the night stampedes.