A poem for Tracie Aronson
based on her pencil sketch
by Peter Cardinal
From Baltimore to this forgotten place
We moved our horse and plow and rake
And cut the sod and a built a house
And planted corn and bought a cow.
We said our prayers and planted seed
And made or scavenged all our needs.
Oh, we were certain of success
If not this year, then surely next.
That year the smut took all our corn.
We sold the calf before it was born,
But the horse earned his keep with the neighbor's mare.
With mud and moss we sealed our lair
Against the winter's cold return.
And for our carpet: fronds of fern.
We laughed to say we'd feathered our nest.
No, not this year, but maybe next.
The church was founded on the rock
Of Round Hill's hemlock-crested top.
But lightening struck and burned it down
With half the meadows here around.
Since then we've met in barns to pray,
In houses, or on reddish clay.
But we will have our church-house yet --
If not this year, then maybe next.
This winter's snows went early down
Revealing fields of lovely brown.
And then the rains began to fall
With lightening, wind, and hail, and all --
This springtime's floods the worst we've seen.
The fields were washed out down the stream.
But we're a young and stalwart set.
If not this year, then maybe next.
The waning moon last night was gone.
This morning's sun ignites the dawn.
And now, besides the rocks and clay,
Some little sprouts have seen the day:
Potatoes and some dandelion.
Their sprouting surely is a sign.
Yes, God is here and so are we
And I am certain we'll succeed.
If not this year, then surely next.
April 16, 1994
(June, 1999)