Here the land is tilted Like a gambrel roof. The world Slopes away from the Great Divide, And all the people And all the trees Lean in the same direction Just to stand up straight. Even lies that lean that way are true, Like wilsome pines at timberline. When I die and turn to rain, I'd like to fall into the distance And stay awhile. I'd be happy to be smaller, Where close at hand is out of reach And everything nearby is blue: The denim work-clothes of the men, Their axes in the spruce, The spruce, the sky, The knife that cuts the rain in two, the lie. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PRELUDE TO A FAIRY TALE by EDITH SITWELL THE DEFILED SANCTUARY by WILLIAM BLAKE SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: RUTHERFORD MCDOWELL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE LADY OF SHALOTT by ALFRED TENNYSON MONCH AND JUNGFRAU by ANTON ALEXANDER VON AUERSPERG RHODE ISLAND by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES |