Prison Hollow
“Here at the end of goldenrod, shouldering a seismic weight that glitters & fades in the fields, she moves seamlessly from fullness of summer, to the torpor that pulls everything down. Everything that had wanted to expand. But that soon, will contract. Like me. But not without a fight. I can’t help but lug along behind me, my distain for the feckless, the academic, the celebrity wan. Those toting accolades, prizes & puffery. You know who you are. Responsible, in part, for the failures I clutch, the bouquets that seemed brilliant & fresh once, that are nothing to me now. And why I work so hard, pushing my body beyond what it might be reasonably expected to do. “Until it hurts” is the mantra of the insanely unloved. Now, it’s the small things that count. Warming a muffin in butter in a cast iron pan; his open chords during lunch break, on a twelve string, as the clouds shift and darken. Then, my neighbor Brian, pulling in on his bike. Looking for an antique latch or fastener, that might have come loose during my renovation. I’m glad people look for things here. Because I look for things too. We might as well look together. On the phone with Suz tonight, we make plans to look for what lies behind a no-trespassing gate. Why not. The fences & boundaries in our lives either mean love or hate. I love you enough to tell you that I’m very sensitive, here. I’ve come to fear you so much, I’ve learned to protect myself, exactly there, where you seem to always break the rules of human decency. I treasure my ability to honor the space between us, as friends, as enemies. Which is why, perhaps, I find myself driving a road called “State Prison Hollow”. Awkwardly wondering what I am doing there, self consciously curious about those who live there. On the east side of Hogback. And that name, I don’t take lightly. Whether Camel’s Hump or Eagle’s Nest, or Hogback, something’s been taken away from the animal that inspired the reference. I wonder how I’ll ever find my route in, on roads that don’t exist, that never really wanted to be found. Cast in cold forest clay, and the endless bounty of ferns, amidst nattering brooks of marginal size. The hum-drum miracle of wilderness, that amounts to nothing, until it joins forces with the other, equally negligible tributaries. Sedge grasses in annoying clumps, repeat in mindless profusion. I feel that, in my bones. The things that keep showing up, regardless of merit. The things said over & over, the images that rankle, disturb and demand. I could only tell you how humble I am in my own back country. Where simple things are felt, with so much gratitude. I’m free of “messaging” here. I’m a natural being, here. I squat, pee, pull at weeds and muscle large rocks, here. With little argument, as to who is the wiser. My amazing flowers grow. My battles are won, without hurting anyone or diminishing the losers. It takes years to populate areas with fragrant aromas. It takes years, sometimes, to realize how easy it is to be free. If I’ve learned anything as a gardener, it’s how to sit things out. Because you can’t have ultimate control, nor should you want to. Like the Japanese Knotweed who we’ve been trained to despise as it makes its enormous gesture of grace & healing over our rivers. Has anyone thought to ask, why? Strong, protective, bossy, elegant. A plant that’s aware & protective - a true creature of the north country. Not parroting, but siphoning, putting into rehab all the polluted run-off of the world. You’ll make it possible for me to sleep at night. Until I find my one.”