In honor of Madison Cloudfeather Nye

Somehow the voices twined around a young mind

encouraging gentle stanzas, open endings,

even in a Texas town where they wanted you

to testify before cashing a check. Heck with that, boys.

I’m heading out in my little gray boots, slim volumes

of poetry in my holster, William of Oregon, William of Maui,

drinking jasmine from an old fence. I’m finding a meadow,

children, dandelion puffs, scraps from a vintage notebook.

The double William of Paterson, New Jersey

helped keep us sane though our teachers

went crazy over that wheelbarrow.

Love it, then move on!

Riding a train north in England to the stoop

of another William’s cottage, sloped roof,

his sister’s purple-scented paper next to his,

high school memory loitering: our teacher

insisting his gloomy poem nearly led

to death. My classmates concurred,

not caring much whether some guy

leapt from a cliff long ago or not,

but I said, He grieves, but he is filled

with joy. In a strange voice

like a ringing bell, immeasurable joy, because

he grieves so much. Because he loves

so deeply all that he is seeing.

They stared at me.

I was never at home in that school.

Our teacher wanted everyone to get

the same thing from a poem.

Later home felt everywhere, radiant waters,

thistles, greenest hilltops dotted with sheep,

masses of tulips and geese, wandering William’s

intricate paths, pausing at every turn,

life stretching ahead, mountains of bliss

and searing sorrow for years to come.

They wrote it, we defended it,

it seemed joyous enough to know one could

love forever, carry on or stop right there,

and the power was yours.