There were Goulds for 150 years
plowing granite outcrops
in New Hampshire. Topsfield
nurtured them, with jagged shears,
thick brambles, frozen lakes.
They strove in relative
obscurity – no live
broadcasts, no edited remakes.
Live Free or Die. The grumpy stoic
emits a little light,
no less – the gift outright
be given back (one life, unique).
An intuition of soul liberty,
that’s all – that one might have
life in oneself, to serve
& swerve again (Boethian quiddity);
that conscience might arise like spring
in blustery New England –
a crocus prancing gold
before snow melts; your being
perfect, in a sense (meek master
of your own ramshackle
chicken-yard, O Jacqueline).
You glimpse them off the highway – chicory
menoroth, maybe – glimmering
lamps over lonely fields...
just rightness in your bones (beaming).