An Umbrella of Maple Leaves.

Oct.'94, Plainfield, MA

We park up off Lincoln St;

men are working on the road,

we can plainly see,

right after the mailbox

marked "Ellison";

this is not a commodious 

alley, or a gainly street,

but it has class,

its picturesque

turns, gulleys,

all of its pueblo-

like downhill,

is roughly elegant,

except in the season

of snowplow;

sometimes this road

is left completely alone.

Part of the barn is down

but that section up

is haunting, probably

because the grass

has been recently mown,

and further on, remnants

of garden, without fencing,

but clearly a sunspot:

all around the woods.

I remember a hammock 

softly rocking between

trees, and Fanny,

unwilling to have her

picture taken,

with her arms around

her husband, who has on

a hat, no cigar, no pipe,

and from any position

when it comes to this girl

comfortable,

indulgent, his very own.

Now to the house, a cabin,

really, with an addition,

a study on stilts,

a huge desk, blue paper

of the tales of "Cleophus,"

hundred pounds too large,

and speaking to the author

over coffee, almost in the dark.

Cleophus always comes

to be heard.

Michael S. Harper has taught at Brown University since 1970. His recent books include Songlines in Michaeltree, which was published this past spring by the University of Illinois Press, and The Vintage Anthology of African-American Poetry, 1750-2000, which he co-edited.