—after Dylan Thomas’ Fern Hill

When I was first, among and alone, unbowed 
by west wind's willow, I ruled the tethered yard, the shingled town, 
the crescent moon above. I lived the river delta, the silver trees,
summers of blackberry, ​apricot, pepper. And once I danced 
in a grove of shade, a heaven of walnuts masked by green 
as corn-thieving magpies flashed
through the leaves.

​And I wintered in a cherry orchard—
moon glint from the rain-soaked bark, eel slick 
and upward sliding. And as I turned and turned around, 
the honeysuckle carried on taking sweetness leisurely as houses 
mirrored houses and windmills claimed the view. 
Shops took wing in every weather, selling suits
and ties and cotton shirts, dress shoes
in patent leather.​​

Our living hinged on ranches and farms—
we traded for peaches, boxes of plums, tomatoes,
pears, what was left of the corn. And we ran to catch
what light spilled, to pull the weights and wind the clock.
But stars fell dark between the days of keep and sell,
and slept through nights of never held.

Creek water poured through the valley of wine
as stars unwound above. We paved the road 
of all mistakes past gravel pits and cars so wrecked 
their faces can’t be recognized. 

The route ​now runs ​through history books, 
debris on either side—the town a gloss ​of glass
and hot pink letters—BUY CIGARS, ​B​UY A CAR,
fast food drive-thru, liquor stores, 
and all-night urgent care.

Gray moss floats on a shoreless lake, live oak drown below.
Across the road, the homes are tied with happiness
but I’m not stopping there.