Sun set and the children still at play

On your white porch fronting your dense

Catskill wood you’ll wander the mind backward

through the midnight ocean, the black

forest, golgotha, to, at last, our primieval

garden. You’ll wonder what went wrong.

Who’d mean to keep old God away? Not you,

though you did, as now, his cross but a

seesaw – up and down and nothing changed.