What we put on the landscape 2

 

Tonight's poem is about a garden, not this one. This is the view from the handsome rest stop near Duluth,
I got a huge dose on this trip of the things my America has built. Here is a pretty amazing sample, including smokestacks and some fine bridges.

Out of Hiding

Someone said my name in the garden,

while I grew smaller

in the spreading shade of the peonies,

grew larger by my absence to another,

grew older among the ants, ancient

under the opening heads of the flowers,

new to myself and stranger.

When I heard my name again, it sounded far,

like the name of the child next door,

or a favorite cousin visiting for the summer,

while the quiet seemed my true name,

a near and inaudible singing

born of hidden ground.

Quiet to quiet, I called back.

And the birds declared my whereabouts all morning.

Li-Young Lee from Book of my Nights, BOA Editions, Ltd. page 65.

My garden in Michigan is coming along nicely, except that my lupines didn't reseed last year. And this morning--while the birds didn't declare my whereabouts--there was a pair of wild turkeys out front this morning and the sandhill crane was there again, trolling for something to eat in the meadow, and calling his wonderful call over and over. Sleep well, and dream of flight!