Of Novel Disseizin

Myron H. Broomell

No place in mountains, either, can be home.
Life-long you might remain there, but in spring
The avalanche comes down, leaving a ring
Of rocks around the ruin, a square hole
With green grass in it summers afterward.

Or build your cabin in a safer spot,
A cave externalized to match the bear's,
And of thick timbers cut in the near wood
With quiet labor: die, and the logs rot
Season by season in the heatless air.

The pig with quills, the rodent of the rocks,
The flower Calypso and the August grass,
Are the true people. Man is the wrong kind,
Belonging elsewhere with the shell and weed.
The fishy ocean weeps to drag him home.