When the elder seam maker died, we picked raspberries, gathered
Pinecones, fancied ourselves safe from the uneven happenstances,
Those sorrowful “twists of fate” occurring regularly in our valley.

On balance, stealing the man’s wares, his implements, brought no
Aid to our hunts for sea turtles, finback whales, shore birds called
“Red Knots;” his apparatuses abetted no culling of new comestibles.

However, those tools did deconstruct our legends of life and death,
Did employ colorful truths, conspicuous stories, revised knowledge
Of conversations with ghosts, plus the taste of yesterday’s porridge.

Many traditional routes fell out of favor. We began ditching catches,
Finding ourselves returning not just fish and mermaids, but similarly
Caches we dug beneath spirit trees, treasures secreted under grannies.

Finally, the seam maker, himself, appeared, haunted hills and homes.
Though he’d lacked kin to pay his interment, he remained rich with
Earthly wisdom, understanding ways of dead fish, fowl, flocks, men.

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