Tuesday 3.48: Poem

Civic Life

Joe planned to build his own
here soon,
on the land
he was talking about earlier.


Which waited, like all land waits.


The house gentle in his mind,
flanked by inviting
maple trees, ivy coating
a field-stone wall.
Cups of coffee
for brothers and sisters,
friendly with steam.


I arrived
at a savage tangle
of poplars
and invasive vines,
black wires
sagging between poles,
through public records;


Joe never raised
the timber frame.
Land takes life
without thinking:


Quietly, as from another planet,
where the sun and its power
makes believers
in the God of the timeless wild world,


while Earth
settles
in its rooms.


As a dedicated member of the planning committee,
Joe's in his assigned seat on time,
stately, if unfinished, smelling the faint rot
of mold
in the Civic Center’s lower floor,


an undeniable possessor
of land.