Of Novel Disseizin

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.