Willie Metcalf looks back on himself as an odd, gentle presence in a small town—sleeping on the floor of a livery stable, befriending a bulldog, and walking safely among wild horses. People call him “Doctor Meyers” and gossip about who his father was, but his real kinship is with the natural world. On spring walks he tries to recover the feeling that he is not separate from the earth; he lies half-awake in the woods, looks into the eyes of toads and snakes, and watches a stone seem to soften in the sun. The mood is dreamy, lonely but not bitter, and quietly mystical. In the cemetery, the dead gather around him like a silent congregation. The final line answers his old uncertainty: now that he is dead, he knows he belongs to the earth, no longer split between being a walker and being part of its growing.
Willie Metcalf — Summary
I was Willie Metcalf. They used to call me “Doctor Meyers,” Because, they said, I looked like him. And he was my father, according to Jack McGuire. I lived in the livery stable, Sleeping on the floor Side by side with Roger Baughman’s bulldog, Or sometimes in a stall. I could crawl between the legs of the wildest horses Without getting kicked—we knew each other. On spring days I tramped through the country To get the feeling, which I sometimes lost, That I was not a separate thing from the earth. I used to lose myself, as if in sleep, By lying with eyes half-open in the woods. Sometimes I talked with animals—even toads and snakes— Anything that had an eye to look into. Once I saw a stone in the sunshine Trying to turn into jelly. In April days in this cemetery The dead people gathered all about me, And grew still, like a congregation in silent prayer. I never knew whether I was a part of the earth With flowers growing in me, or whether I walked— Now I know.