Poetry Collection By Mrs. Kinion- Block 7

In the Congaree

Samuel Amadon

I’m home. I’m not home. I’m on the road or

Off it, briefly. I’ve been out of place. I’ve been

Taking familiar walks. I like the boardwalk. I like

The swamp. I feel ill at ease. I feel fine.

As August ends, I’m thick and cold. As I circle

Above a tide of cypress knees, of webs,

Fallen trunks and leaves, I gather out

The mud a mossy repose. A violent mist.

A green allure. I have spoken into

A dead and standing pool of air, where,

In its center, a spider hangs. I can hear myself

Moving, notes taken on paper, on

My feet, I stop and that makes a sound.

I look out into what feels ancient. It

Doesn’t seem old. My voice is spun.

I’m rolling out myself last rung by rung.

I pinned my eye to the base of a loblolly pine,

And rose, much higher than I would

Suppose. I know everything already. I have to

Ask people questions. All of my relatives

Are famous. There are so many people dead.

Look at these trees. They’re shattered in pieces.

They’re tall and full. I look forward, steadily,

At the moss grown high as the flood.

Copyright © 2016 by Samuel Amadon. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 21, 2016, this poem was commissioned by the Academy of American Poets and funded by a National Endowment for the Arts Imagine Your Parks grant.

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