It was, perhaps, another end to a beginning.
They built an interstate freeway connecting
San Diego to Sweetgrass through the Virgin
River Gorge, costliest stretch of the whole
Eisenhower Interstate Highway System,
And up through the middle of what had been
An early Mormon missionary settlement
On a precious year-round creek. Roofless
Stone pioneer houses still remained here
And there, either side of the roaring road,
Once they were done, and by the time body
Got there, searching for hideouts near water
Decades later, the upstream Harrisburg
Had become part of a conservation area
With hiking trails, campground, and one
Re-roofed but empty and boarded-up house
Surrounded by historical plaques. The other,
Downstream end of Harrisburg also had
One revenant with standing walls, no roof,
In front of a tiny, tidy trailer park named
Harrisburg Estates, of course. If it were not
So, I would have told you. Descendants
Had scattered around the surrounding
County, the patrimony of those who were
Called to Zion a century and a half before.
Years of taking my lunch upstream once
Or more each workweek had taught me
That the quietest place to sit undisturbed
Was actually nearest the historical plaques
By the white-trimmed, pink sandstone ghost
House in the brush, eschewing campground,
Picnic tables, and trailheads. I had a visitor
Once, from the other side of the highway,
An army vet who lived in the trailer park
With his dog and told derogatory tales
About the Mormon Pioneers, probably
All apocryphal. Other than that, I listened
To the birds and the trucks on the highway
And watched the seasons, read my books,
And waited for something to tell me this
Was more than the idea's corpse outleant,
These bones of homes built to be self-
Sufficient for the little while until the angel
Blew his trumpet and God told us who won.
No comments:
Post a Comment