And Hobo in his lonesomeness needs Blackstone
in his solitude, on Study Hill, under the Cumberland
stars, beside the quiet river. A friend
to Narragansetts, Wampanoags. & all alone.
Plants an orchard, nurtures earliest American apple.
Blackstone's Yellow Sweeting (yellow and black,
the colors of Petersburg, Jerusalem). Off
the beaten track, riding his pet bull
into exile. Blackstone, a kind of Livingstone
to Roger's Stanley (hidden in the jungle).
The one who goes before – tangles
with wilderness – pioneer avant
la lettre. Marries, in old age, a young widow
with teenage son. Fills copious notebooks.
Shaded by Catholic Oak, preaches unstinting
brave & heartfelt charity, good works. . . and so
lost years flow by. When Blackstone sleeps
the dream vines infiltrate his hair. He grows
more tree-like, oak-like – motionless almost
in a morning Paradise of limpid river-steeps
under an emerald almond eye-canoe
that hovers curiously abaft the pyramids.
It is the dream-light of an early love (kids
know it – gaze all-trusting toward their true
heart's anchor – Indian Guide). It is
the stone that Jesus rested in his hand;
old Peter's crown, the hair of Magdalen;
dawn limestone river-cave for Berryman.