For Daniel Webster, who said, "Up in the Mountains of New Hampshire God Almighty has hung out a sign to show that there He makes men."
It was perhaps the way they glinted in the
sun or the way
the granite faces, so far up, held the mist
like wise old hair.
They were perhaps the way men saw themselves,
rough as rock
foundations on the scrappy land.
Other men who saw them learned the names
and in their shadows toppled trees, stopped the
streams,
bullied the stony soil,
settling into niches before known just to
fisher-cat,
black bear, and trout. A fast, imperfect peace
they made with mountains, with themselves.
But work more full of care remained--
birthing babies in cold, preserving meat and
forest-fruit,
stitching clothing, nursing the sick and
dying
stirring stews, feeding fires
while teaching, while singing.
Invisibly the mountain women worked, their
hands on Bibles
hard as the backs of their hard hands.
For centuries, the homes they kept
held up the changing sky,
made men they cared for persevere like rock.
Martha, Sally, Dolly, Abigail, Elizabeth.
Shoulder to shoulder watching the gates,
keeping children out of cold streams
till snow-melt in The Seven
signals winter’s end,
warm in summer as green wool,
firm as ridges snow-packed by the wind,
the
comforting bosoms of ancient grandmas.
They, not God, made Georges, Jameses, et al.,
into men.
With due respect (if any), Mr. Webster,
these mountains make women.