Consider the Surveyor
The blaze of blue the surveyor used To mark where the land changes hands Glows on the trunks of trees that stand On the boundary and so are no one’s, Rising over the years as the trees grow, Like floating patches of sunlight Would if it were evening. Touch them While you can reach them, touch where A man you will never meet but Who determined the shape your life Would take said to himself, “Here…here…”