We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
In trackless woods, it puzzled me to find Four great rock maples seemingly aligned, As if they had been set out in a row Before some house a century ago, To edge the property and to lend some shade. I looked to see if ancient wheels had made Old ruts to which these trees ran parallel, But there were none, so far as I could tell - There'd been no roadway. Nor could I find the square Depression of a cellar anywhere, And so I tramped on further, to survey Amazing patterns in a hornbeam spray Or spirals in a pinecone, under trees Not subject to our stiff geometries.
(A bio and some commentary here. Buy the Collected Poems of this modern master here)
The poem seems to have grown on me.
His use of rectilinearity as a symbol of the transience and relative insignificance of humans is arresting and memorable.
But how he says it is unsatisfying, as if Hemmingway were to poetize unbidden.
Consider Wilbur's uninspired use of adjectives:
"trackless woods," "great rock maples," "square depression," "amazing patterns."
These images are obvious. In good poetry, words are precious and are selected rigorously, not tossed in like so much filling.