The ever-incessant dulcimer-precursor to the piano-is hammered expertly by an ancient practitioner. Heknows which vibrations can be elicited from the reflexive bending of steel strings. Do thej differ much fromthe channels of blood that flow from heart to hand?
Well Jenny's got tall grass drowned in monsoon rainsIn place of where her heart once grew.She sold her long-lost uncle to a circus in 'Frisco,After he stuck her to a night sky with a wing screw.And parted a dead mare's mane.Jenny once declared to Bedouin Chief:"People are delightfulWhen they keep their mouths shutWhen they stay at homeWhen they go to sleep."People are delightfulOn a Sunday afternoonWhen the stores on Main Street close.
I'm headed up to the Great White NorthTo slap some paint on the locksmith's houseOut on Rhubarb Farm, where the Northern LightsTease the tar out of hungry coyotes.I left the memor)' of my first born there.In the bedroom with the crooked eaves.Where a dirty bib lies in a cold, dark crib.Locked out from critical eyes.There was a life here, many lives.None large enough to silence a world fuU of din.None rich enough to move ahead and keep assail.None firm enough to tough it out and settle in.I'm headed up to the Great White NorthTo pry boards from covered windows.
Consulting summer's clock,But half the hours remain.I ascertain it with a shock --I shall not look again.The second half of joyIs shorter than the first.The truth I do not dare to knowI muffle with a jest.
The frog half fearful jumps across the path,And little mouse that leaves its hole at eveNimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,Till past,--and then the cricket sings more strong,And grasshoppers in merry moods still wearThe short night weary with their fretting song.Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bankThe yellowhammer flutters in short fearsFrom off its nest hid in the grasses rank,And drops again when no more noise it hears.Thus nature's human link and endless thrall,Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.
The Winters are so short --I'm hardly justifiedIn sending all the Birds away --And moving into Pod --Myself -- for scarcely settled --The Phoebes have begun --And then -- it's time to strike my Tent --And open House -- again --It's mostly, interruptions --My Summer -- is despoiled --Because there was a Winter -- once --And al the Cattle -- starved --And so there was a Deluge --And swept the World away --But Ararat's a Legend -- now --And no one credits Noah --