“That Country, That Time” first appeared in Off the Coast.
It was a sky hard as chert
when geese told their story.
It was sorrow on the mountain.
A forlorn honk misting the tamaracks
and pony breath near the aspen grove.
It was hunger driving the wild, fevered eye,
frost joy the magpie called its own.
It was the groan of the apple bin,
a harvest that fed my resurrection.
It was squashes and raw cider
for sale along the river,
the dregs I chewed like barley, thinking nomad.
It was storms I inhaled before their arrival,
barns crippled and strapped for deliverance.
It was rosehips and a lost flame kindled.
It was charcoal in the bone.
It was sauna and snow bank and a pale moon talking.
It was dream cloud and cabin as rosin
flaked from the bow.
It was the dancer spinning far off center,
the bare branch wind-whipped by tears.
It was the hole buried in night song,
the blackbird who never came down.
It was a promise
a beveled thorn
and always
always
it was the heart
the insatiable heart of it