Navasota
In Texas on the Brazos River, you
Found refuge in a store selling antiques,
A family home now consecrated to
The well-wrought past, when things were made of wood,
Beauty blushed on smooth ceramic cheeks,
And workmanship was uniformly good.
The low damp skies of winter were forsaken
Of any sign the weather might improve,
But when we took the road less often taken
And stopped in Navasota for an hour,
You found an unsuspected sacred trove
Of treasure there, including at least four
Elaborate birdcages and roll-top desks,
A dozen dolls with glass-bead eyes that closed,
A smoking jacket’s patchwork arabesques,
And decorated oriental fans,
Along with other items that engrossed
Your eyes and filled you with acquisitory plans.
Your soul was nourished by such things as these:
A wicker chair, Depression glass, a vase
Shaped like a bird, a copse of painted trees.
Texas was unlovely and unsound,
But there in Navasota was a place
Where remnants of a lost world could be found.