Head for the Foothills

a sestina.

Wooded acres whisper Metacom’s valiant memories
Retired colonial courthouses remember Shays’ rebellion
Vestiges of Coolidge’s dry Yankee wit hang in the air
Longfellow, Dickinson and Frost spring forth the right words
Civil unrest stirs awake the legacy of Sojourner Truth
Long forgotten is the stench of The Meritorious Price of Our Redemption as it burns.

Does a smoldering book smell like a wood stove when it burns?
Why do certain scents trigger nostalgia and old memories?
And why is memory so rarely aligned with the truth?
Has the same soil that sprouted Jonathan Edwards sprouted such rebellion?
Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God are now mere empty words
The death of Puritanism hangs in the air

Fiery tapped maples leave a sweetness in the air
Children read bedtime stories as a fireplace burns
Their young minds forever shaped by twelve point double spaced words
They’ll remember inaccurately, but they will trust their memories
They’ll be so sure they’re right in their rebellion
Some boring and broken reality will be the forgotten truth

The Hick from French Lick gives way to The Truth
Times change in the Garden but the play-by-play still fills the air
Now common is that which was once called rebellion
Everything ends up the same when it burns
Chester Harding has tried to preserve our memories
We know Monroe’s face but have forgotten his words

A land always reforming and heavy on words
Seeks no true arrival in man’s quest for truth
Trying always to relive or forget our memories
Historians and activists compete for the air
Everything ends up the same when it burns
And burning is what always comes for rebellion

Oh, Agawam! When will you see your rebellion?
Pity that you will never read these words.
Everything ends up the same when it burns.
Life is yet found in the way and the truth.
Pray that the spirit would fill the air
Of the misremembered home of my memories.

Memories of rebellion
Empty words in the air
As the truth burns