My memory of a perfect scent: pine, sage, and cypress;
My friends' faith in the power of rough and winding paths
to take me up a mountain and bring me back.
Specimens plucked from that mountain's pastures:
Indian paintbrush, sego lily, ordinary wildflowers.
Dolorous, here he made his stand
Like those who are beaten,
Behind, the mountains, and in front, the sea,
To the west a rock by the brown river eaten.
Here beauty went along the strand
Smashing green waves against the white sand.
“Beyond the rock there, that’s his thatch.”
So spoke up a neighbor.
“And you’ll be finding leather string on latch
And him inside, at peace from labor.”