1 On my way home from school       up tribal Providence Hill            past the Academy ballpark where I could never hope to play       I scuffed in the drainage ditch            among the sodden seethe of leaves hunting for perfect stones       rolled out of glacial time            into my pitcher's hand; then sprinted lickety-       split on my magic Keds            from a crouching start, scarcely touching the ground       with my flying skin            as I poured it on for the prize of the mastery       over that stretch of road,            with no one no where to deny when I flung myself down       that on the given course            I was the world's fastest human. 2 Around the bend       that tried to loop me home            dawdling came natural across a nettled field       riddled with rabbit-life            where the bees sank sugar-wells in the trunks of the maples       and a stringy old lilac            more than two stories tall blazing with mildew       remembered a door in the            long teeth of the woods. All of it happened slow:       brushing the stickseed off,            wading through jewelweed strangled by angel's hair,       spotting the print of the deer            and the red fox's scats. Once I owned the key       to an umbrageous trail            thickened with mosses where flickering presences       gave me right of passage            as I followed in the steps of straight-backed Massassoit       soundlessly heel-and-toe            practicing my Indian walk. 3 Past the abandoned quarry       where the pale sun bobbed            in the sump of the granite, past copperhead ledge,       where the ferns gave foothold,            I walked, deliberate, on to the clearing,       with the stones in my pocket            changing to oracles and my coiled ear tuned       to the slightest leaf-stir.            I had kept my appointment. There I stood in the shadow,       at fifty measured paces,            of the inexhaustible oak, tyrant and target,       Jehovah of acorns,            watchtower of the thunders, that locked King Philip's War       in its annulated core            under the cut of my name. Father wherever you are       I have only three throws            bless my good right arm. In the haze of afternoon,       while the air flowed saffron,            I played my game for keeps – for love, for poetry,       and for eternal life –            after the trials of summer. 4 In the recurring dream       my mother stands            in her bridal gown under the burning lilac,       with Bernard Shaw and Bertie            Russell kissing her hands; the house behind her is in ruins;       she is wearing an owl's face            and makes barking noises. Her minatory finger points.       I pass through the cardboard doorway            askew in the field and peer down a well       where an albino walrus huffs.            He has the gentlest eyes. If the dirt keeps sifting in,       staining the water yellow,            why should I be blamed? Never try to explain.       That single Model A            sputtering up the grade unfurled a highway behind       where the tanks maneuver,            revolving their turrets. In a murderous time       the heart breaks and breaks            and lives by breaking. It is necessary to go       through dark and deeper dark            and not to turn. I am looking for the trail .       Where is my testing-tree?            Give me back my stones!