westward
Caught by a stroke mid–stride
Eyes fixed beyond the world’s
North edge (not, in the word
Of the caption beside
You, westward) I wonder:
Were you tall for your age
Or the lines of your face
With long miles under
The sun just rough, rough as
Your father’s though near twice
As young? Given the choice
To farm a life or pan
For vaguely rumored gold
In California,
Can anyone blame you
(I can’t) for grabbing hold
Of your best shirt and boots,
For rolling your shoulders
Before a land broader
Than God — what could you lose
But what you’d never gain
At home?
But I admit
My reasons are selfish:
This afternoon the play
Of gold upon your frame
Lights the entire stair.
Two years ago I’d stare
Anywhere else for shame
I didn’t understand,
But your right hand deserves
Attention, and the curve
Beneath your collar, and
This thin veneer this sheen
Like dust–traced sweat leaves
Very little between
Us. I know, as you knew,
The shadows that these wide
And cloud–daubed blue paint skies
Cast on a landscape strewn
With expectation, know
That every hue and shade
Of you already fades
Away.
And even so.
If vast waste lands await
You, and thunder, and if
Each day is a brush with
Inevitable fate —
If your eyes are but for
Those pale and fluttering
Apparitions pointing
To our manifest our
Dead certain destiny —
At least you stood a time,
Caught Mr. Blashfield’s eye
Amid the subtle heat
Of a prairie sunrise.
At least beneath a dome
Of finely fashioned gold,
Caught by a stroke mid–stride
I stand, eyes fixed beyond
The world’s rough canvas edge,
And lift my hand to rest
For now (where else?) on you.