A form change poem

(with thanks to David Bouchard, “If You’re Not From the Prairie . . . “)

 

If you’re not from New Hampshire,

You don’t know mountains,

You can’t know mountains.

Mountains with the royalest crowns,

Mountains purple and sparkling,

Fresh days on the mountains,

No frowns,

Always there even when darkening.

If you’re not from New Hampshire,

You don’t know mountains.

 

If you’re not from New Hampshire,

You don’t know trees.

You can’t know trees!

Trees shimmer from dawn to twilight.

Trees are made of brass.

Trees all kinds.

Trees swaying all day.

 

If you’re not from New Hampshire,

You don’t know my birds.

They make the sound of a flute,

Fluttering swiftly through the air,

Chirping all day long.

 

You see, my hair is morning,

My eyes are crisp bark,

My ears are the wind,

My hands are roots.

I’ve been over the world.

I’ve swum to the deep blue villages.

My home is New Hampshire,

Free and brave.