The Country Roads
Last night in my dream, I drank tea steeped
In iron that had failed; at the bottom
I saw ruined tines of an old pitchfork.
Everything we leave behind is testimony,
Even our nail clippings. Then my old clothes
Are testimony of my love of nakedness.
During the months everyone spoke badly of us,
Then I had the fiercest love for you.
People still try to encourage us by speaking badly.
So many times this week I've felt like weeping.
It's natural, like the cry of Canada Geese
Who call to each other over the darkening reeds.
In my early poems I praised so many lost things.
The way crickets' cries in October carried
Them into the night sky felt right to me.
Every way of knowing is blessed by bootleggers.
Because the government does not allow delight
To be sold, you have to find it on the country roads.