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TWO POEMS Pauline B. Cheek OF A MIND TO Granny never learned to play her organ. Oh, she managed to puzzle out "Amazing Grace" And maybe "Sweet Hour of Prayer," But not what you'd call real playing. You could tell that the organ pleasured her, though. It stood in the North room, Along with the victrola and the plush pile settee, Over near the window, where the light Could catch the grain of the rich dark wood And any dust that dared to settle there. A crocheted runner protected the top From framed photos of the boys and the grandbabies. Nothing else rested on it, except a hymnal, of course, And maybe a pitcher of holly at Christmastime. There's no telling what prompted that salesman To wander so far back from the road. ile could not hear the music inside That slender young woman bending over the hoe. He could not look inside her house At embroidered feedsack pillowslips, At dahlias in a crock beside the kerosene lamp. There's no telling either what prompted Granny to sign That paper that stayed fourteen years in her bureau drawer, Daily reminder of payments due. Extravagance for her was usually a sack of orange-slice candy On an occasional trip to town. Independence for her was not usually signing something Without consulting Joe. No, there's no telling what capricious wind caught hold of Granny's dream And kept it sailing like a kite for fourteen years. She never let go of the kitestring. After alt, she had ways of meeting payments. 18 All the money that came from the chickens was hers. The old horseappie tree bore a plenty of fruit for drying. And stained hands from shelling out walnuts never bothered her. Slowly the snuff can grew heavy, To be emptied, and then filled again With coins and a few wadded bills— For fourteen years. No one remembers what Granny did the day the organ arrived. She's not likely to have shown much emotion. The organ just became a part of her. And years later, when asked how she got it, And searched for an explanation: "I reckon 1 was of a mind to have one, And 1 never did get out of heart." THE BOUNDARY LINE They walked the line into Grandpa's past, Past the pen where the pigs no longer root And the honeysuckle tangles now the cattle's all sold; Then, skirting the thicket where the pines have grown In the pasture he cleared of chestnut oak, They found the site of the cabin he built For the bride he took in her ninteenth year, Faced east to the Sunday when the fire got out And swept down the hollow to the backfire's blaze, Then headed north along John Williams' line, Where he taught his boys to apologize For a hide-out built on another man's land. Turning left at the stob in the hardwood stand Still scarred from the swath of the hurricane'? scythe, Crossing copper-veined rocks where the Indians campea. Leaving arrowheads for the boys to find When they'd finished up chores and could frolic there, They went twenty paces on to mid-July, a maple tree, And a mason jar of lemonade drained when they worked the upper four. Due south across the branch from the Dollar spring, Where his wife hunted cresses and purpie trilliurn. 1 Q To Charlie Sharpe's line and the gap in the fence That ran to the barn and those tale-telling nights When the katy-dids sawed and tobacco cured. They circled the beech that provided shade When he lay near death from the hay-rake fall And back along the garden to the sawdust pile Where he fired the boiler as a lad of twelve And served as sawyer in the lumber mill Till he earned the land fair from his pa. From the gravestone dated back to 1804 They followed the sunken old country road To the mailbox posted on the new highway, Angled north along the orchard and the richest field To the birdfeed plank strewn with sunflower seeds And back to the house, where the...

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