Sealing this wooden roof with tar, a yearly
job, I wipe my face. The tribe on this
hardscrabble slope made Arcadian bliss,
but how? Both Dakota and I nearly
froze last winter, while in summer we bake.
The cabin’s centuries old, and I feel
obliged to patch its wounds and conceal
its scratches against whatever might take
it down. If you were to say I was wasting
my time, I’d say you were right. But how
is that different from anything now
and here? Isn’t the hastening
moment all we have until, at last,
the present is wrenched untimely from our grasp?

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 41 Number 6, on page 24
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