From this far away
The Civil War and Revolutionary War
seem like custard to me.
That’s not to minimize their horrors
but it is to say that I have learned to accept my aging face
as well as all the sweets that come like ghostings.
It’s to say that I’ve been like muskets along the way
and feel like ambushed sparks. 

I’ve also bandaged ooze and piped whistles
and even now I listen hard to whatever
great-grandfathers growl from bed
whenever they want to.
I’ve held West Virginia close as any maiden aunt would 
and I’ve tasted puddings
and seen storms in cornfields.

Nothing else surrounds my years as such knowing does.
Nothing else silhouettes my insides as candles can.
And surely nothing will ever race down my ravines 
cap in hand
like these chills do now.

When the roads curve like sound
and dip as if lifting to bow
Whenever all thoughts round or cluster
or when hearts call down
is Ireland 

And as rich when poor was
or as wise as bare heads in snow seemed
and as twigs so frail broke into song
and as true as any blight or potato could be
was Ireland

So when sand laps the senses
or salt drips the edges as dreams
Whenever hope streams through such heavens
and moss comes home
or hearts beam down
is Ireland.