In America
       

Even these days I can sense it—
the old allure of nature, as sweet
and impermanent as winter's first snow.
Or the brilliance of the pear tree
flowering. Or that disc of sun
on water, drifting away from itself,

then back, briefly restored. Once
it was possible to mistake
silence for sympathy. And no one
worried about where nature
was going. Or what would happen
when it got there. Moment by moment

is how children move through the day,
and if in fact they don't I still
want to see them out in the evening
on the darkening lawns, released
from thought. My friend Eric tells me
that to an unencumbered mind

the acceptance of death is freedom.
"Equanimity," he writes,
"has become my dear companion."
I believe him, I believe he's sure of it.
But nostalgia often takes me
back to a time when we might

have invented a better place to live
than where we live now. America,
you were so eager and in love
with yourself—how can we
claim to be surprised
that our grandfather's fathers,

overwhelmed by your endlessness,
decided everything was theirs
to take, and name, and keep?
So they did, and taught us
that anyone who stands in the way
should have known better.

That suffering is the cost of progress.
That we are what we own.
It's not difficult now to confess
their sins and be burdened
by almost nothing, even granted
permission to congratulate ourselves

on our honesty. Quiet concentration
is what Eric says he tries to achieve
without trying. No more
neediness, no more striving.
When I was a kid I was given
a gold star for being good,

and a silver one
for just a little less. How pleased
I was to see them
beside my name on the bulletin board
for the other children
to look at, and envy.

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Copyright © 2022 Lawrence Raab All rights reserved
from April at the Ruins
Tupelo Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission