Upstate
was as it was,
only more orderly;

the caves that served as kilns
turned "underground facilities"
in case of war;

the creek, a river once, and wild,
smoothed down upstream, and damned;

the water snakes were gone.

At the old house, the front porch
closed, a dead fire
ghosted a steel chimney -

"no connections," you sighed, afterward.

On a huge hill, so high and arched it seemed
we saw the visible roundness and rotation of the earth,
so cragged and steep, it beat the car and worn,
we struggled up on foot, your hand
within my hand, dodged gravestones at angles,
snaked narrow paths, a hill so huge
you might find truth at such a place:

my grandfather was there,
his passions and his tempests
and his cares, 1857--1920.

Soon, you too were gone,
you young antique, born
at the turn of the century
at 1 Broadway and summered here,

times always seemed to grow around you
like moss upon a stone -

it looked good, you blossomed under it,

We both kept in that trip was pilgrimage.

Now, your grandchild in my arms,
in my mind we always walk
Thanksgiving Day when I was five
collecting chestnuts, inspecting leaves
above the wind wild Hudson -

give me the strength to give her what you gave,
perpetual youth: let me be to her
a mountain of thanksgivings; let us
grow roots around our memories, my friend;
let me reap memories to warm you soon.