The Testing-Tree by Stanley Kunitz

The Testing-Tree

1

On my way home from school

    up tribal Providence Hill

       past the Academy ballpark

where I could never hope to play

    I scuffed in the drainage ditch

       among the sodden seethe of leaves

hunting for perfect stones

    rolled out of glacial time

       into my pitcher’s hand;

then sprinted lickety-

    split on my magic Keds

       from a crouching start,

scarcely touching the ground

    with my flying skin

       as I poured it on

for the prize of the mastery

    over that stretch of road,

       with no one no where to deny

when I flung myself down

    that on the given course

       I was the world’s fastest human.

2

Around the bend

    that tried to loop me home

       dawdling came natural

across a nettled field

    riddled with rabbit-life

       where the bees sank sugar-wells

in the trunks of the maples

    and a stringy old lilac

       more than two stories tall

blazing with mildew

    remembered a door in the

        long teeth of the woods.

All of it happened slow:

    brushing the stickseed off,

       wading through jewelweed

strangled by angel’s hair,

    spotting the print of the deer

       and the red fox’s scats.

Once I owned the key

    to an umbrageous trail      

thickened with mosses

where flickering presences

    gave me right of passage

       as I followed in the steps

of straight-backed Massassoit

    soundlessly heel-and-toe

       practicing my Indian walk.

3

Past the abandoned quarry

    where the pale sun bobbed

       in the sump of the granite,

past copperhead ledge,

    where the ferns gave foothold,

       I walked, deliberate,

on to the clearing,

    with the stones in my pocket

       changing to oracles

and my coiled ear tuned

    to the slightest leaf-stir.

       I had kept my appointment.

There I stood in the shadow,

    at fifty measured paces,

       of the inexhaustible oak,

tyrant and target,

    Jehovah of acorns,

       watchtower of the thunders,

that locked King Philip’s War

    in its annulated core

       under the cut of my name.

Father wherever you are

     I have only three throws

        bless my good right arm. 

In the haze of afternoon,

    while the air flowed saffron,

       I played my game for keeps—

for love, for poetry,

    and for eternal life—

       after the trials of summer.

4

In the recurring dream

    my mother stands

       in her bridal gown

under the burning lilac,

    with Bernard Shaw and Bertie

       Russell kissing her hands;

the house behind her is in ruins;

    she is wearing an owl’s face

       and makes barking noises.

Her minatory finger points.

    I pass through the cardboard doorway

       askew in the field

and peer down a well

    where an albino walrus huffs.

       He has the gentlest eyes. 

If the dirt keeps sifting in,

    staining the water yellow,

       why should I be blamed?

Never try to explain.

    That single Model A

       sputtering up the grade

unfurled a highway behind

    where the tanks maneuver,

       revolving their turrets.

In a murderous time

    the heart breaks and breaks

       and lives by breaking.

It is necessary to go

    through dark and deeper dark

       and not to turn.

 I am looking for the trail.

    Where is my testing-tree?

       Give me back my stones!