The market on the eastern slope surveys
A place in Minnesota that I love:
Looks past the barns, past where the tire swing sways,
And the farmhouse and the chapel stand above
Their bound where road and driveway gravels blend.
Evolving with the seasons since their birth,
Traditions kept with care, like precious seeds,
Take root, express afresh their ancient truth,
Adapted to their time’s peculiar needs.
Their secret wisdom: when and how to bend.
Here migrant hymns live on in the resettled church
Where family transplants join their voice in song,
And antique photos their own features search,
Expressed anew and known here to belong.
In their small way, such kindred things transcend.
The windows hold and pass the light, within,
Without this heirloom place, day after day.
We too are held as we move out and in.
We too are changed by it and leave it changed
When the fleet and lovely lights of our day end.
