Joshua* Poem by elysabeth faslund

In the years of black tap dancers and cotton bales,
Massah Jim had a boy...raised him from cypress knee
Height in the ways of the Earth,
Plantings, harvestings.
Massah Jim named him Joshua...gave him a hound
And grey Apaloosa that loved the rain and winds.

Joshua had eyes like a hungry hawk at noon...
Heard rustlings that cats ignored, late in the evening
Under river willows.
Joshua, the hound, and Apaloosa roamed through
October nights, when only owls were about.

Frost rimmed the windows when Joshua's mother died.
Massah Jim watched his boy grow quiet, then walked
In the library...closed the door behind him.

Joshua knew ancient trails where wisteria grew wild,
And waters remained dark under moss, sun.
He grew closer to the oaks than his father knew why...
Ventures became secretive, silent as a cottonmouth.
His footprints left no traces.

Slaves whispered. None would walk with Joshua
Through the cotton fields...or smile when he passed their
Cabins.
They feared the sounds of hoofbeats in a storm, begged
Old women to raise fires against the darkness.

Spring rains came with the fog. One misty morning, before
Roosters blinked, or the black cook yawned,
Joshua, the horse, and the hound were gone.

Massah Jim died in the library, brandy glass in his hand.
Slaves and lands auctioned. Crops sold. Steampaddles
Floated upriver past a desolate wharf.

Brambles crept around pillars, up the stairs, shrouded
Trees and roads. Floors fell through. Saplings grew into
Broken panes...once glowing with candlestick flames
Outlining whirling ladies, cigar-smoking gentlemen,
Servants passing delicacies.

In the years of Blue and Gray uniforms, as sparrows
Hatched their chicks in parlor walls,
Soldiers found the shadow form...a man, one gnarled hand
Around a brandy glass...
Seated in the library,
Close to the rain.
Close as a body could get.