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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=431930" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Clearing of the Land: An Epitaph</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=431930" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The trees went up the hill<br>And over it.<br>Then the dry grasses of the pasture were<br>Only a kind of blonde light<br>Settling everywhere <br>And framing the randomly strewn<br>Outcropping of gray stone</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=431930" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">That anchored them to soil.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=431930" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Who were they?<br>One in the picture, & one not, & both<br>Scotch-Irish drifters,<br>With nothing in common but a perfect contempt<br>for a past;<br>Ancestors of stumps & fallen trees & . . . .<br>One sits on a sorrel mare,<br>Idly tossing small stones at the rump<br>of a steer<br>That goes on grazing at tough rosettes<br>of pasture grass & switching its tail<br>In what is not yet irritation.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=431930" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">What I like, what I</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=431930" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Have always liked, is the way he tosses each small<br>Stone without thinking, without<br>A thought for anything, not aiming at all,<br>The easy, arcing forearm nonchalance<br>Like someone fly casting,<br>For this is what<br>He wanted:<br>To be among the stones, the grasses,<br>Savoring a stony self<br>That reminded him of no one else,<br>And on land where that poacher, Law,<br>Had not yet stolen through his fences,<br>The horse beneath him tensing<br>Its withers lightly to keep</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=431930" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The summer flies away,</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=431930" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And the woman in the flower-print dress hemmed<br>With stains<br>A half mile off<br>Is the authoress of no more than smoke rising,<br>Her sole diary & only publication,<br>From a distant chimney.<br>They have perhaps a year or two<br>Left of this<br>Before history begins to edit them into<br>Something without smoke or flies, something<br>Beyond all recognition.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Larry+Levis">Larry Levis</a></strong></div>