Go Back, Pilgrim

Remembering is a steep climb

to a box sealed in granite.

Raise your eyes.  There is new weather

heading East.  Hand over hand

is best.  Call out my name–I may

hear you.  A volcano lived here.

You can slip on basalt.  I know

your shoulders ache.  Rest.

Sit right next to the past.

Here are all the nouns:  people,

places, and things.   Verbs

are actions, but frozen.  Here

are the 50s, before interstates.

The family is driving to Nebraska.

You may join them if you wish.

On the way to Kindergarten, your

mother holds your hand.  Curtie

died of polio, but there he is.

A girl named Evelyn.  Look

for your birth in the corner.

Here comes language, waking up

on the Savannah.  New oceans

pour on boiling rock.