Out Stealing Mangoes

Setting out across the plains

at that time of year

was an act of stubborn recklessness.

But my great-grandfather

ignored all the advice,

freely given,

at the feed store in Des Moines

and shoved off

with his worldly goods.

They shook their heads,

and his hand,

for the last time

At first, he reported back in letters:

Am sending news back with the occasional pilgrim headed east

Trust you are all well back there in civilization.

progress is slow,

mules plod ten miles a day.

sweet grass is taller than

the wagon and alive.

birds and insects

of all colors imaginable

dart in and out

the air rings with the songs and buzz

of these busy creatures

I feel like I am sailing

across a green ocean

pacific and calm

but for the hand of the wind ruffling

the long hairs of the grass

The snows will come soon but

have found a small sheltered valley

and am building a sod home

to guard against the weather

I never felt so free.

Am growing my hair long.

Today I swam naked in a small creek

without a care for modesty

That was the last message

my family ever got.

Vanished into the unknown.

Holding the creased yellowed letters ,

I picture him,

swimming free and easy,

untethered to the modern world

I won’t go to work today

instead I’ll eat a mango

off my neighbor’s tree

and forget to wipe the juice from my smile

Leavetaking

I hate to leave this beautiful place,
my father said before he died.
I thought he meant the house
with the sleeping porch by the lake
but maybe he meant this earth:
the way the wind moves through the leaves
like a girl brushing her hair;
diamonds of water on the
smooth shoulders of swimming children;
a faithful dog wagging in greeting;
the sound of a stream rippling and giggling over rocks;
a field of sunflowers smiling to the sky;
fresh baked bread;
the curves of a beloved woman;
the trusting weight of a sleeping child;
hummingbirds;
clouds sailing before the wind,
moving away from us
out over the green-blue sea,
like free floating
spirits
released from the pull
of gravity.

On the Edge

We live on the edge of town
where it’s still legal to burn your trash.
Most days, time moves slow here
spinning detritus in moseying circles.
But we know there are faster currents.
Sally is aware.
“This truck is old and ugly,” she observes
looking at me.
All I can do is laugh,
put on my crumpled suit of clothes,
and turn my best face to the wind.

Father

We wade into a field of thistle,
surprisingly beautiful in spite of the name.
My father moves ahead,
parting crowds of purple flowers
that bow at his passage,
saving the prickly thorns for me,
following in his wake.
Smiling, he waves me on.
Encouraged, I try to keep pace,
but his footprints vanish,
and the distance widens,
until,
like all fathers,
he fades into the mist,
leaving me to find my own path.
Only a bent flower,
here and there,
marks the way.

A Plowman’s Geometry

The old farmer across the way
works the field in patterns
as is his habit,
harrowing left to right,
inscribing straight grooves
on the earth’s flanks
that only interlace
when he breaks for lunch
to survey his progress
as his hungry tractor ticks and cools.

It is a rough geometry
that plows under wildflowers
that someone once cared enough to name:
Dwarf lake iris, Dutchman’s breeches,
Bloodroot, Black-eyed Susan
Yellow trout lily, Red columbine,
Bold Jack-in-the Pulpit, Joe Pye Weed.

Each famous to the wind and the sky.
Imperceptible from the high seat
of a Massey-Ferguson

powering through the fields.

But when my neighbor chugs off,
to bring order to another plot,
the wildflowers come out of hiding,
declining to stay inside the lines,
disobediently resilient.

Soundings

She said if you listen to the earth
It will tell you a story.
So, like an Indian, I laid my ear down to
the frozen ground
and listened.
At first, there were just the faint
pings of snowflakes softly landing.
Underneath were the creaks and moans of the permafrost
tossing uneasily in its bed.
Deeper, the barely perceptible snores
of tiny voles and field mice
hibernating in their warm burrows.
Still deeper,
straining now to hear,
the scratching of long dormant seeds
as they begin their gentle journey
to the surface.
There,
deep in the background
is the faint hum and sigh
of the planet
as it turns. again,
toward the sun.

In the print issue of PAN-O-PLY Story & Art Michiana Steve Sult designed the pages below to accompany Rosenbluth’s poems. Sult was a featured artist for PAN-O-PLY you can read about him at Steve Sult Posters with A Cause — PAN-O-PLY (panoplymichiana.com) .

See More Steve Sult Art

From The Land a collection of Poems by Thomas Rosenbluth