In The Canyon Poem by Edwin Ford Piper

'This is her diary. Come with me to view
The canyon; think you see it as of old
When Martha lived, and hear the simple tale.

Down the steep, rough slope for a hundred yards,
The stiff, brown bunch-grass swishing round our knees,
Until the shelving bank abruptly falls
To the canyon floor divided by a ditch
O'ergrown with ironweeds, horsemint, currant bush.
And clumps of the dwarf cherry with black fruit
Thick clustering among the leathery leaves.
The uneven canyon jogging right and left,
Brown slopes to east, and west, and north, and south,
Forms a deep cup; one notch to the southeast
Reveals, miles off, the buildings of a farm.

Such view and skyline for the sodded mound
Pierced by the rusting stovepipe. The roof's front
O'erbrows a window and an ample passage
Cut smooth in the clay and cleanly swept.

'Tis noon.
In the open door against the inner dusk
Stands Martha gazing; her blue sunbonnet
Is pressed back, and reveals coarse, graying hair
Over a face dealt harshly with by sun
And wind. She looks right down the canyon bed
Past rope-and-pulley well, chokecherry patch,
Beyond the bean poles, and the withered vines,
And yellowing sweet corn, to the stretch of the slope,
The notch, and the buildings.

With long weary moods
This childless widow faced the lonesome months
Here in the canyon, for the nearest soddy
Lay out of sight fully a mile away.
She said once to this neighbor, shyness melting
Under kindly eyes: ''You say it's half a visit
To see folk pass on the road. You touch their lives.
The who, and when, and why, fill up your heart
With friendly thoughts and hopes. I chose a spot
In which the dugout could be cheaply made.
My well is shallower by a hundred feet
Than any on the ridge, and easily works
With rope and pulley. I don't mind coarse clothes,
Nor gardening with the hoe, nor guarding fowls
Against hawk, coyote, - but to be alone!
If I could see your house, and you watch mine!''
She paused with a sigh, her parted lips grew firm.
''It's only four more years.''

Some weeks had passed,
She came again, resumed the thread abruptly
In some such words as these:

''My dugout room
Is very lonesome. Let your child come stay
The night with me. I long to hear a voice,
Be it chatter ne'er so trifling. I make pets
Of the fowls, hold foolish talk with my dozy horse,
Have named the seven jackrabbits that play
On the slope in front. Beasts have no words to give
In answer, and tasks fail that filled the time.
The curious quilt is finished; there remain
No scraps for working.''

Now the child had come,
Tossing her soft brown curls from eager eyes,
To stand by Martha folded in Tier arm.
The mother made assent.

Folk seldom thought
Of Martha's struggle, for she did not give
Her burdens unto others. She took charge
Of her course, and moved with delicate steps to meet
At the surprising turns of the stony path
The unpitying spies of fate. And while she groped
In silence on, lone hour and hour might sap
The health of body and soul. The neighbors saw
Her hands hang listless, and her shoulders sag,
The tan forsake her cheek, languor eat through
The strength from every muscle. Like a vine
Struck at the root by beetles, she drooped fast.
Good gossips sensed her weakness, visited,
Brought delicacies, gave companionship;
Saw her eyes lose the strange bewildered lights,
And that she breathed more free from shuddering dreams
Waking her in the midnight's stifling black;
And that she ceased from muttering to herself.

One woman urged, ''Come, Martha, stay with us
A week, a month!''

''Thank you, I cannot come.
I should be in your way, - my fowls, my horse!
Besides,-''

''Why, sell your chickens, bring the horse!
I worry when I think of you alone.
Suppose,- of course, it's no affair of mine.
You must get strength.''

''Indeed, you are most kind!
Thank you, I cannot come. I'll manage here.''
No querulous note from the quiet voice; the head
Held a rebellious poise. Now visits ceased
Because work drove the neighbor women hard.

On Martha's loneliness the dreams returned,
Flooded her mind, and overwashed and drowned
All its defences. This the diary tells,
Not all coherently. Its simple words
Say much, suggest to understanding folk
The height and weight of woe. Its leaves were found
When the nearest neighbor woman taking thought
How Martha was not seen this fortnight space
Let drop her tasks, half ran to the canyon slope,
And breathless down. Loose tumble-weeds confused
The passageway to the door. She knocked; she called;
She knew the secret trick to lift the bar,
Opened and peered. Disorder everywhere.
The farthest corner showed a barricade
Of washstand, chair, and woodbox. Behind this,
Crumpled uneasily upon the floor,
The woman lay. Profusion of gray hair
Half hid the terror wrinkled in her face
And a-stare in her wide blue eyes.-

This diary
Is intimate and not for careless gaze.
Its first page the first Sunday on her claim.
Much reminiscence in the early leaves.
Married two years, her husband died. She tells
Her fear of snakes, and how a flood in the ditch
Heaps weed-drift on the bushes.

Here she writes:
''Gray clouds, cold rain. Whatever light comes through
My one small window soaks into dirt walls,
Leaving me in a shivering dusk.''

''The men
Plastered my walls with native lime - rough coat,
Dull gray. I tacked white muslin all above
To the rafters; it keeps dirt from sifting down,
And it makes the dugout lighter. I'll not choke
On rainy days with darkness.''

Farther on -
''Six months to-day. The snow was dazzling white,
And the sun gave a blindness. The horse drank
A single bucket and shivered with the cold.
I got three eggs; two leghorns froze their combs.
Warmer to-night. My monthly trip to town
To-morrow if it's fine. To Ashby 's place
By sunrise,- there get warm, and leave my horse.
Less chilly in his wagon. Home by dark,-
Or moonlight, - lantern ready. I dread the cold-
Long to see people. I 'll borrow on the hill
The county paper, bring the feeble stuff,
The idle precinct locals and bought praise
Of patent curealls home to read. Thin food,-
It sours on the mind. I hate and fear this place;
Such stillness lies upon it all day long!
And with the dusk, day's quiet has increased,
The little lamp calls all the shadows up
Prom stove, chair, table, woodbox, vivifies
The lines in the checked curtain o 'er the shelves
That hold the dishes. I move to the door,-''
One can imagine how she wrote this page,
The bent thin shoulders, and the firm sweet mouth,
Stillness, - the lingering whisper of her pen
With the shadows listening,-

''I move to the door.
Such moonlight on the snow, shadows and stars!
Out here the stars are always near at hand.
The air is stirless, fearing the least noise.
I wonder that my heart can beat so loud,
I long to free my senses with a shriek.
What if - ! Oh! Oh! the coyote's cry,
That wildly shrilling ululation bursts
Shattering the nerves. And now his eager mates
Multiply wailing answers from the slope.
The cries die off. - To-morrow to the town.''

''Midsummer's hand is heavy. Heat and light
And wind that never ceases. If my life
Were like a man's I might go striding free
To fresh adventures, hardying my soul,
Choosing my ground of vantage. When I came,
This was adventure; it is penance now.
Days die in turn. But I have set my steps
To this path, and I keep it, spite of sun,
And wind, and dust, and thirst, or beasts that growl,
Or brutes that bristle.

''O, to be away!
Lake water, trees, the wood-thrush! In four years.''

''My cherry patch is white with spires of bloom,
I smell the piquant sweetness. April sun
Makes my fowls noisy. Tiny bands of green
Cross the black garden, and I should be glad,
But loneliness is heavy. Just five years
Last night since the fire. Shall I have again
Books, music, place in life? O tale of days,
Pinching and scraping, buried in this hole!
I write no letters. They reveal my mind
Drugged by this solitude, beaten too low,
Quiescent, not rebellious save in nerves
Acutely sensitive, bidding me hide
From pity. All alone, yes, all alone!
Three years, three months yet. I say to myself
At morn, seven hours till noon, then seven more,
Night; two more hours, and then to bed
In hope to sleep. Shall I dawdle, spin work out?
Then sit to wear the dragging day quite through,
Counting my breathings seven thousand times?
This diary helps. That's why I write so much,
And give it pains for the most part.''

As we turn
Through many a leaf, the neat and even form
Of the word begins to waver.

''I have laughed!
The little girl who stayed with me last night
Was full of talk and glee. My dugout room
Had never heard such merriment, - and I,-
He called my laughter silvery - long ago,
As in another world. - How good to laugh!''

''Why not give up? I lack the power to choose
Another project. O, for some strong will
To establish me. I have read my one book over
Story by story, promise after promise.
I need help now. If God is in this world,
He has forgot the corner where I lie,
And no one cares. And yet, the clouds, the stars!''

''Better to write than mutter to myself:
The page bears moody words my tongue might bring
Into the open; and when tears would flow,
Or terror crush, I clutch the pen and write.''

''Yes, I can love my neighbors. They have been
Loving to me. And when my health returns
I will throw off timidity, reserve,
Try mixing with their gayety.''

''A road
Bears witness men have passed, makes promises
That men will come. If I lived by a road,-''
''The heat of August burns the bunch-grass brown;
It makes my body fail. I hadn't breath
To climb the canyon slope, and found no taste
For my own cooking. Early then to bed.
Through all the shimmering quiet of the dusk
I lay in utter loneliness. The wind
Went on in long drawn sighs. At last a doze,
Then dreams, the mind indulging fancy's whim
And terror's utmost threatening. Habit this.
My senses need relief. I wake, and watch
Through my window the dark sky soak up the light
Of coming day, deep blue, then silver blue,
Then all day's splendor. Opening the door,
I look on the chaste grasses, see the dew
In shine and shadow, feel the morning breeze
Tighten my nerves, and win a kind of strength.
Yet not such force as when from healthful sleep
And quiet dreams of friends, the body wakes
Purified as by music's happiest streams
From all the dregs of yesterday.

''I write
In this high mood one moment. How days wear!
Nights wear, months wear! I never can grow used
To loneliness. This canyon seems a trap
Closing me in. The weight of pent-up moods
Must find some floodway of escape or burst
Explosively the barriers. Sunset time
Brings causeless tears, and while the brief dusk glooms,
I shake with sobbings. When my heart is hushed,
Sleep holds aloof. I mutter to myself,
'''Tis two years more, ten months, eleven days'.''

''I hear the migrant plover whistling high.
Five hawks wheel screaming down the dirty wind.
Had I but wings-''

The other lines are blank.
A little further on three leaves are gone.
The final page is crumpled, slightly torn,
Shows haltings, fresh departures; words begin
Precisely, snarl themselves.

''The door still holds.
They have besieged me two days and two nights.
Water, - I fear to go - the ditch - the well -
The cherry patch. - In the shed the biggest one
Got in the horse. I chopped him. Night -
Six more - tap window - beat the stovepipe -
Will break in. - One said - if - open the door -
I could go home, and -. No escape, - afraid!
Four nights awake. If I were but a child
Sleeping in mother's arms! Oh hush! I hear -
God in Heaven, how they howl and yell. Lord God,
Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Why won't you help?''

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The wilderness shall blossom as the rose.
Its grasses cover graves, its canyons bury
In deep forgetfulness.

Down the steep slope,
With the brown bunchgrass swishing round your knees.
The rusty stovepipe rises through a beard
Of starveling herbage. A mat of tumble-weeds
In the doorway is o'erhung with bluestem blades;
They blot the path to the well. The garden place
Bristles with ragweed; at one corner spire
Red and white hollyhocks, and the dying souls
Of damask roses drench the sultry noon.