1968: the turmoil seems oddly familiar now:
war in our living rooms, lies, resistance, murder, mayhem.
The splintering of coalitions. In the thick of this discord,
a small group of urban friends hatched a plan to start over
on an empty hill farm ten miles from the nearest town.
Memorial Day, 1968, four dozen years ago, I stood on this hill among peach trees in full bloom, gazing with my friends into the distance. The great northern forest was the closest neighbor. That suited us. Fresh from the riots in Washington, DC, we envisioned a future on these acres, its open fields, woods, rickety house, barn, and outbuildings.
At 23, I wanted to live my life as a poem right here, in a loving community.
For that pinkish haze across the orchard,
ten thousand blossoms on a widow’s peak,
we forsook the Revolution and bought the farm.