This is no longer your father's American conservatism. Who gets to define it in 2021?
Indelible October
February 22, 2016
This poem appears in the Fall 2015 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, go here.
My father’s shoulders thrust me to the sky.
“Off to the fruit stalls! Piggy-back for you!”
But I might have to duck: the harvest moon
was bigger than the world and coming close!
“It’s just a pumpkin happy it can sail.”
He told me what I knew. And there I reached
and touched the harvest of the years to come.
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