Back to Jack Leax's page
In the Berkshires
At Arrowhead, I stood where Melville
spun his tale. On the table
his hand, a fissure in time,
scrolled across the page.In the light of afternoon
and dream I lounged beside him.
Bearded and fierce
he terrified handsome Hawthorne
with the pacing of his rage.Then the guide who led
our gentle group of fond idolaters
began to speak: The house was too full
for conversation. Children
and relatives drove the masters
to the barn where they
climbed into the loft for quiet.Laughter restored me to my time.
The room emptied, and I followed
the lecture down the stairs.The next day, still a pilgrim,
I sought in morning light
the evening route Melville,
Holmes, and Hawthorne talked
up Monument Mountain, At noon,
I reached the humped back peak
where looking off to Greylock,
perhaps remembering Thoreau's ascent,
they read Bryant's quaint, invented
legend of the indian maiden's leap.Picnickers sprawled against the rocks
nibbling sandwiches and fruit.
None spoke to me. None read Bryant.Below, gray Volvos, unharming
sharks, swam noiselessly
through creamy depths of sun.
Buoyed, I floated on a coffin-slab
of granite, sucked in a breath,
and then went down.John R. Leax
Copyrighted 1999 by John R.Leax. All rights reserved.
Back to E/C Home page
