The Provincial

The Frenchman asked,
‘‘Where should I travel?
I live in Paris.’’
We are not so steeped
in the pride of home
that we ignore a glance at
‘‘the glory that was Greece.’’
But we turn away from the green leaves
of life to seek the shrouds of death
in the cemeteries of old cultures.
Faith in my work keeps me
pleased with my own fields
where the earth is fresh and alive,
not soaked with blood of old
battles. What musty tomb
in a cathedral can give me the joy
of black earth rolling off the plow’s
moldboard? I am rooted in the ground
I stand on. Let me be provincial,
I thrive where I grow, not in
tumbled palaces or stained statues.
I need my place here as a bird needs
air for flight.