Raleigh and Marlowe Were Right

We cannot go to the country that will bring us peace,

The violets that grow on furry stems

Tell us

Speaking their small flowering minds, blue in grasses

Where Aphid and Cutworm roam;

And wild plum

Ravaged by curculio, summer fuchsia wealed with mites,

September's apples pocked

By larval browse

Of coddling-moth and maggot; aphid seized by Lady Bug,

Cutworm by Robin, the moth risen

Fluttering

In the swallow's eye and many others-others all

Agree, we cannot go to the country that

Will bring us peace.

There are no idyls in what I simply see. It is March:

Carpenter ants bloom in heartwood;

Penniless

Redwings nest in the cattails: yesterday at dusk

A cock pheasant yelped, promising

Amber studs

And fragrant posies to every hen up the creek,

Nature, just a place, is our just

Place:

From whence we go as to the country

That will bring us

Peace.