The Air Is Paved With Fire
The air is paved
with fire; you are there
and I and in privacy
I sense the larger end
of land, and a wild and
waiting sea. None, my
soul, is small
upon its course
of flames and I oar
upon your love of me
to a waiting Face that
looks for me in flashes
of the dark.
Nebraska Territory, 1853. For Alfred Corn
I love the brilliance of this
hour; simple calico is turned
to Joseph’s coat and your
upturned face does not permit
transient light to wheel and disappear.
No furrows mark your cheeks and
I long to lengthen lines of joy
about your eyes, and dam them
high against the beat of flood. Emmaline,
our crop is heaped into flowered
fields, and our book of days is
waiting to be inscribed, one
generation at a time.
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