JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Born to new world’s song

wind-blown from other territories

they meet like hurried leaves

dashing to random destinations

under trees, their body language

saying – move aside

       

His calloused hands have known

logs, heft of axe

shining steel, fragrance of gum

sap diverted from amputated trunks

warm bodies of paid women

 

She, squall-driven from eastern shores

red spot on her forehead

denoting the caste that she resents

her dimly felt vision of tomorrow

pushing her along this wind-swept path

no man to soil a better home

 

Now here they stand so sturdy

side-by-side up on a polished shelf

and here’s a photograph of them together

some sudden storm sweeping through forest

had flung them haphazardly into each other’s

arms, rain-drenched against all odds

to found in this American dream

a common future, no longer foreign bodies

 

Applauded by a dozen smiling grandchildren

who fondly feel this log-frame incense-scented

home they share has been there always

solid as two figures carved in wood