Intimation of Mortality

Tiny misshapen meringues, puffs of cloud, float Like lacework across the green and brown land Far beneath. In the distance, they are a little Bigger, yet still not the towering fortresses of home; And the snaking roads, mostly dirt this far from city Or town, can be followed from horizon to horizon. At every intersection there is a cluster of houses Tin roofs sparkling in the bright sunlight, with more Strung along the roads, a twinkling necklace of homes. The ochre earth is patch-worked into squares and Rectangles, with seams of dark green; each bead In the necklace of homes stands guard over Enough for one family to manage, one generation To another. My imagination takes me down, down into that Foreign land, into a world ruled by the rhythms Of the seasons, planting, growing, harvesting; and a Rare journey to a greater world to sell and buy. I see the unrolling of years, with good harvests, And bad. Children come and grow into the same Rhythm, broken only to move further along the road. Yet, inexorably, in the distance of my mind, the Rhythm stops, a pause as a father takes his leave, And a son begins the pattern of a new passage Of seasons, each not unlike the one before. It is the great breathing of the world; inhale, Pause, exhale, Nature’s unconscious beat. And I feel fear. There is no natural rhythm in my life, no Ritual of harvest home to count out the Compass of my days. Here is where I am, Not a place of dirt with familiar smell after Rain; or tree that grows with me, each ring Sounding the passing parade of years. My world has not the sameness and comforting Familiarity of a few rectangles of fertile land. My horizon is the other side of the world, not The line of distant hills, that I have been to but once. I look down from my swift journey, continent to Continent, and in my imaginings, I see that I too Am one breathing of the world, as the farmer below. And my fear is not of death, but of not living.