Mary (Elvira) Ravlin Gould, Jan. 2020
BRIGHT ANCHOR
I was wheeling my mother Mary around
the old people’s home yesterday.
We came upon the Ash Wednesday
service, by chance, & rolled on in.
The genial priest lifted up the Book
& prayed for us all
& traced a cross of charcoal
on our brows (despite my mother’s look
of wary puzzlement). & we rolled on.
Her father was an engineer.
Master of grain elevator
& sewage plant, he built his own
brick house along the Mississippi
back in 1929, or so –
Barnett & Record Co.
John H. Ravlin (everlastingly).
Granddad, your fathers came from Dublin
whirled by coracle & shamrock
to Vermont. By hard knock
grace & cornucopia, they ventured in
to the interior. You heard violins
of Verdi… Elvira
(some serene Barber adagio)
& in great lofty mountainous grain bins
of full, deep faith, one mustard seed
of your stern secret mother
glints – compassionate anchor
for Milky Way (ark’s cornerstone, indeed).
2.27.20
John H. Ravlin in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (1940s)
