A BRANCH OVER THE PATH
A certain morning has her
tending not only spring beds
but the path going through
a property I use to find a way
back to an old belief in short-cuts,
a path I found based on directions
another man shared, another man
thought was an easier way home.
Her name is Ruth,
path owner of sorts, ready
to leave the bulbs and soil
in order to try and have me stop,
stop using the easy way to the job.
I listen to her reasons, her voice
nothing more than the cold morning,
her voice never saying my choice
to cut through the property she
wants to take away from humans
is a wrong choice, a choice I
think resembles the deer's,
how the does were the first to
invade the forest, Ruth said,
is a piece of her family's privacy.
No signs hang from the branch,
and what would it matter, I have
become a deer, and "Keep Out"
wouldn't have caught my eye.
Nov. 21, 2011
- chad norman
Chad Norman writes and walks in Truro, N. S. His poem is taken from a manuscript, The Book of Awe. Last Fall he founded Grant Block Press, in order to reexplore a more DIY
approach to bringing out his books. The first title is Hugging the Huge Father.
* * * * * * * * * *
excellent - great poem & perfectly in tune with the blog
I moved out here almost 23 years ago, & with hopes of getting some advance understanding of the rural mentality, I bought the book LIFE AFTER THE CITY. The author discusses this very thing - how in rural areas paths have been used for generations, & property rights don't mean much - esp. if the new owner is from the city. I've observed this time after time - some bigwig will buy a 100 acres, fence it in, & then the locals (myself included to a lesser degree) will just ignore the structure at best, degrading it is standard practice (I've even found myself pissing on a particularly obnoxious & threatening sign in the middle of a remote favourite trail!), & at 'worst' locals just tear the damn thing down. I've observed some feats of destruction which would put Hercules or Prometheus to shame - huge cedar gate & fence monoliths ripped apart & casually left lying by the snowmobile tracks : )
Please send more poems anytime you'd like them posted. Send a bio note if you'd like one included. Every few years I dig thru my boxes & heaps of TO lit memorabilia & revisit the past. Old issues of THE SHIT always bring a smile.
thanks again for sharing,
peace & poetry power!
Chris ... and Chase ... (wffffffff tired after nitely walk around the village)