A Path Through . . .

(Found here ) These visions. Some might say I saw them because I read poetry and became disposed to astonishment. Some might say because I was disposed to astonishment I read poetry. The two parties might debate cause and effect, chicken and egg. In fact, no one will say anything. This poem will rest undisturbed, one of the few things in the world left respectfully not-dug-up. Like woods in central Maine, virgin because too remote to be exploited. Like a stream in Ohio where industry collapsed, so the water went fresh again. Like a boy whose parents don’t care where he gets to. The useless is there and continues. On economically unviable steeps of rock, under far evergreens, the mountain potentilla that once I saw still grows. In my looking at it many years ago...that’s where I am buried. ~A. F. Moritz