After Ted Kooser’s “So This Is Nebraska”

I. Sunday.

The troll dozes under the gazebo,
his gray flesh pale as woodsmoke,
his snores thunder rolls punctuating
a chorus of bee thrum and cricket.

Downslope, a stream burbles the saga
of the ninety miles from mountain spring
to weed-rich lowland. On the bank, a heron,
statue still, surveils for fish.

So this is Sunday, nearly noon.
Warm and drowsy, procrastinating,
you lie in a rhododendron cave
imbibing flower-dropped perfume.

But the hill gnomes are due at dusk
and they deserve a proper feast.
Let troll sleep on a bit longer;
you can make a start without him.

So you pick up your best manners
and barefoot down to the stream
in hopes that heron will trade
you fish for a tale well spun.

II. Monday.

No rooster, no church bell, no alarm clock
but gusting wind and armies of raindrops.
Muttering hill gnomes stand to attention
then march off for six days’ labor.

A branch groans loose from an elm
and spears a regiment of ferns.
Only the dapper gentleman heron,
downslope by the stream, is unruffled.

So this is Monday. Summer splashing in,
downing rhododendron flowers en masse.
You reconcile yourself to the weekly trek
to town, the strictures of conformity.

Mud squelches up between your bare toes
as you muster into camouflage uniform:
jeans, shirt, shoes long in service,
a price paid for news and groceries.

Before your grumpiness can take root,
heron daintily high-steps up the slope
and offers, shy, lowering his head,
to keep you company as far as the road.

III. Tuesday.

Under the gazebo, troll wakes late
and stretches slow as a leaf unfurling.
He's slept right through Monday,
the gloom of the gnomes’ departure.

Storm-wrack clutches at the hillside,
the twigs inked brown on a green page.
Troll gathers up fallen blossoms,
tries to arrange them back on the bush.

So this is Tuesday. The string section
plunging across the bridge of the sonata.
You take the baton in hand, call to troll
to join your labors down at the stream.

Debris every which way, hard to discern
proof of your efforts. Troll squats down,
places a petal afloat on the water,
then starts hauling out branches.

An hour later, a beaver family swims up
in a tremolo of anxiety—a tree’s fallen
but none of their doing. Troll levers it
where they want, accepts their thanks.

IV. Wednesday.

Turpentine runs roughshod over a bouquet
of honeysuckle, rhododendron, sage.
You wipe the paintbrush on the rag,
step back to take a lung-clearing break.

Stationed on a boulder in the stream
heron poses still as any model.
You wish you were sketching him:
those lineaments, the spearing of fish.

So this is Wednesday, an uphill hike
on a path tramped to rock and root,
painting pet portraits from photos
to pay tax and upkeep on these acres.

Portrait by portrait, you inch forward,
afternoon dragging at your heels
like a sullen dog till the final sprint
of clean-up and stowing of paintings.

Then a benediction of slanting light
as you commit the ritual of mint tea:
a cup for you, a tankard for troll,
a saucer for heron to dip his beak in.

Troll mumbles thanks, each word balm;
heron launches into extravagant flights
of fancy about the fish he caught;
this serendipity of friendship.

V. Thursday.

Wild strawberry tapestries the lower hillside,
white flowers embroidered on a leafy backdrop,
runners reaching into the vegetable garden
to brush against asparagus and rhubarb.

Ruthlessly you snip the border crossers.
Everything in its place: heron knee-deep
in reeds by the stream, troll in his gazebo,
the slow blink of his regard fixed on you.

So this is Thursday. Your nails manicured
with earth, culled weeds at your feet,
You crunch an early radish, just-picked,
drop more in the basket with the asparagus.

Wet flags of laundry wave from the branches
of the old oak that you learned to climb on.
One more radish, then you wipe your hands,
gather up your tools as troll ambles over.

Troll at your side, you check the bee hives,
each in its turn. The heady thrumming slows,
lulled bees canopying troll’s shoulders,
knowing him for safety as all wild things do.

VI. Friday.

A banquet spreads out in five languages
under the gazebo’s pillared scrutiny:
Dante nodding deferentially to Virgil,
Basho raising one eyebrow at Li Bai.

Troll cannot read, but holds a book
tender in the gray nest of his hands,
gazing upon an illustrated Sappho:
Aeolic Greek lyric draped by a harp.

So this is Friday. Waves crash fitfully
along the abandoned coast of learning
as you fumble through dictionaries
and variant English translations.

Why did you borrow Dante from the library?
Why do you stumble darkly on the sand
hoping for the flash of a lighthouse?
Why did you ever think you could read this?

At dusk, tired, exasperated, exhilarated,
you put books aside. Heron high-steps up
to perch by troll, and you spin fairytales
in the candlelit hush of their attention.

VII. Saturday.

The fuchsia preens, pendant flower bells
chiming songs of praise for the sun,
petals dipped in pinks and purples
from a holy palette, awash in light.

In the earth beneath, charcoal of ash
laid years since amid the fuchsia’s roots,
tempered by frost and rain, shifted
by the seasons of worm and grub.

So this is Saturday. You kneel on dirt,
prayerless, rudderless, telling the story
of your week to no one and nothing.
You don’t believe in god or ghosts.

Only memories and a love that stretched
mother to child for the years allotted.
Heedless of your disbelief, the fuchsia
blooms and glows a full month early.

And when you rise and brush your knees,
troll, who’d waited by the pine trees,
mumbles, “You okay?” and ambles near,
unfurling the umbrella of his care.