Truth shall make you free


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
remote star-woodcuts,
lamps over lonely fields...
just rightness in your bones (beaming).


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