The Giantess on the Hillside

Thinking of you
Trying to get you all in mind for praise
Guessing at love against our neighbors
The pipsqueaks with their weights and measures
The words fail me, as always.
They complain, But we were here before you found her!
But we have nothing for her but little paradoxes!
Proud empty-handed words.
What they won’t tell of you
What crazy ways love grows to be heroic
I promise you I’ll carry to a grassy hillside
West of our town, and there in full view
Of every church, with naked hands and feet
I’ll carve the figure of an enormous woman!
She’ll cover forty acres if I want her to,
And all her flesh will be grass.
First her bold mouth, grinning like an earthquake;
And then I’ll run mad to work
Ripping back the sod and boulders
Around her head, her outffung arms,
Her thighs as broad as superhighways,
Feeling my way down one limb and up another
Knee deep in loam until by God she’s excavated,
Her heathen shrines lovingly unearthed and whitewashed
Like some fabulous walled city
A human Babylon upon the hillside.
Farmers will come and solemnly pace off
Her length and breadth as if this were the ritual
For seeds to swell and burst in bumper harvests,
And guides will tell them You can see she’s female
Thirty miles away in springtime. They’ll say
No one knows which god she is; there’s not
A straight line in her. Up on Mars
Astronomers will tell the Press
That signs of some intelligent activity
Have been observed at last on Earth,
And in our town young lovers will take heart
And lie down beneath her sheltering arms
And grown men in love will only need
To look and point, as I do now,
When the words fail them.