American Muse: Wendell Berry

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“Window Poem 12”

The country where he lives
is haunted
by the ghost of an old forest.
In the cleared fields
where he gardens
And pastures his horses
it stood once
and will return. There will be
a resurrection of the wild.
Already it stands in wait
At the pasture fences.
It is rising up
In the waste places of the cities.
When the fools of the capitals
have devoured each other
in righteousness,
and the machines have eaten
the rest of us, then
there will be the second coming
of the trees. They will come
straggling over the fences
slowly, but soon enough.
The highways will sound
with the feel of the wild herds,
returning. Beaver will ascend
the streams as the trees
close over them.
The wolf and the panther
will find their old ways
through the nights. Water
and air will flow clear.
Certain calamities
will have passed,
and certain pleasures.
The wind will do without
Corners. How difficult
to think of it: miles and miles
and no window.
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