September
22, Old Pinawa Dam Provincial Park, Manitoba, Canada
Thank
you, old Pinawa Dam, for not
deluging
us with secrets, for keeping frames
within
yourself like petroforms withhold
their
trace. We only want to walk
your
channeled straits, rapids that, now free,
wear
down the place—last watts sold
(for
good or ill we cannot say), old town
run
down beneath the force that buries all.
Unlike
you we burst out from our limits,
driving
down the land as once the water
drove
your blades. Still you sit,
silent
bulk recalling surge and blast.
Bless
us, please, with momentary rest.
Keep
your hoarded wisdom to yourself.
We
will enjoy the web-foot beavers
paddling
your weirs and spillways. Only tell
us
comfort stories, what we want to hear
for
now. The rest we will wrest free again
from
other pristine space. Don’t remind us
that
our span is short, our mission futile.
Drench
us with fresh water that in you
we
may forget our cares and man-made sins.
Wise
or Foolish Builders?
Two
people make a house by the sea,
shape
it large with wood and brick and glass.
They
sip wine over lonely views.
Their
voices echo in empty space.
God
makes a mountain, piles it high
with
earth and rocks. God sticks on trees
then
has the water lap its feet. God says
“that’s
good” to no one in particular.
What
right, I ask, did the owners claim
to
build so big? Do they have
a
large family? Do they entertain?
Or
did they try to rival the other structure
that
reaches for heaven in their back yard?
The poems below are from a series of poem-letters
I wrote to a friend. They are numbered
according to the day count of our trip, and also by letter number.
#22
(Letter #4), from Hayfield, Minnesota
It
all ends
in
glory—Iowa
hills,
Minnesota
lakes,
sunsets
painting
shadows
beside
the road.
Once
I noticed clouds
of
birds, thousands
passing
overhead.
Where
do they get
such
energy, such
commitment?
I
asked. They fly
to
heaven, someone
said. And then
the
valleys rose
and
hills were made low
and
light poured
down
and I pedaled
with
joy unbounded.
#24
(Letter #6), from Pine City, Minnesota
All
night the mosquitoes come and eat
our
blood. Our bread is plain. Each place
we
lay our heads we beg from someone strange.
“Home
is where my seat is,” I tell the ones
who
ask, which means that home these days
is
mostly on a bicycle, pedaling
from
place to place like maps are all I own.
When
will wandering cease and peaceful weeks
come
near? Motion never ends,
and
we find plenty more to see.
The
eye always roves, the belly never fills,
and
I’ll commune with nomads till I die.
#28
(Letter #9), from Pine Island State Forest, Minnesota
Last
night we rode past dark,
rushing
recklessly through Minnesota
wilderness,
praying no rocks or limbs
awaited
in our path. For hours
we
sensed nothing but trees, some birds,
an
owl, perhaps a bear, and still
the
gravel road straight, then turning,
then
straight. This morning
we
claim our fire back from dust
and
dew, cook oatmeal laced with chunks
of
fruit. I write and write
by
cracking fire. Poems only come
by
new light lately, and journals
wait—too
cold and late at night.
I
hope you read these letters
written
from the wandering road.
They
mean well, though often
fragile,
and want to tell you
more
than they can tell. Keep hard
your
sense of home, this wilderness
can
only be a camping place.
#29
(Letter #10), from Moose Lake, Manitoba, Canada
The
lake ripples with morning.
Eagles
stretch in trees.
Why
should the day be long
and
the night stuffed with dreams?
Here,
afloat in silent space,
wind
and waves whisper to me
that
dusk and dawn continue,
the
land stays before and after me.
#38
(Letter #13), from Devil’s Lake, North Dakota
Here
we sit, inside another stranger’s house—
eating
his eggs, relaxing in his jacuzzi, drinking
his
beer, stretching ourselves to full couch-length.
It’s
uncanny, the sharing that begins
when
people warm to us. We learn to ask
for
what we need and accept what’s offered.
Strangers
are generous beyond our needs,
and
the friends we want bring themselves to us.
Yesterday
we rode over open prairie, all day
battling
headwinds and aching knees. Ducks
flew
out of marsh and reeds. Clouds glazed
a
wind-swept sky. We’ve felt alone
in
this land, adventurers in strange territory.
But
each day something good comes near—
summer
homesteads open to us; someone gives
us
apples. ‘Living off the land’ never
meant so much.
#39
(Letter #14), from Coal Mine Lake, North Dakota
Despite
the cold, I still like fall—weather
for
apples and leaves and jackets. I never
thought
I’d
spend an autumn on a bike, searching
along
the road for “Fresh Apple Cider” signs,
carving
pumpkins to fit atop my handlebars.
Days
drift by, their tang like smoke still faint
on
layers of clothes. Pears fall from
branches
and
hit our helmets. Geese line the sky
like
trees divide this open prairie.
Yesterday
was
gray. We stopped to lunch and pee
in
a country cemetery. Sitting on the
headstones,
I
wondered if the dead feel the autumn chill,
soak
in our warmth like we spread wind-bit hands
to
flame. Perhaps they grudge our living
breath,
coursing blood. Duck season starts
today.
It
makes no sense not to hunt out here
where
guns and dogs are like guitars and friends,
the
kill a trophy and food for long winters.
Still
I wince at every sharp report, check
my
limbs for holes. Do the gifts of autumn
come
to
the deceased? Could they drink a pint
of cider
for
times past? Do coffins recall their
fallen leaves,
reminders
that, even for the dead, winter comes?