Pantoum for an Uncertain Future

At the edge of our new home,

I found huckleberries recovering from drought.

Red lights, open leaves, they stretched

in the shade of summer trees.

I found huckleberries recovering from drought

when I, too, needed strength

in the shade of summer trees.

Ancient fruit, I had heard the myth

when I, too, needed strength:

that you cannot be domesticated.

Ancient fruit, I had heard the myth

that only you can choose where to root.

One cannot be domesticated

if each morning becomes a discovery

and I’ve chosen a northern soil

far from what I once knew.

Each morning becomes a discovery:

dogwood, bleeding-hearts, irises

far from what I once knew—

is this not a kind of survival? As I look back

at redwoods, live-forevers, poppies,

I grieve what was promised to us.   

Is this a kind of survival? As we look back

at a nation that was meant to be green

we grieve what was promised to us—

and I fear I’m holding on to the past.

A nation that was meant to be green

becomes autumn, hoping for winter again.

But fear, I’m holding on; past

red lights, open leaves, stretching

beyond autumn, hoping for winter rain   

at the edge of our new home.

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