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Three days after the
coup's defeat, with
communism all but
buried, I came to
Canterbury to rummage
through lost dreams, and find a
peg to mark the way.
The houses rose like white
birch on the hill,
a vision
which still lures
the tourists of New York
and Boston.
Here they lived in families of
hundreds, sisters and
brethren, celibate
but busy, putting "hands to
work, hearts to God," packaging their
seed, crafting chairs
for angels.
Somewhere the last Shaker
sister ("a bit reclusive at
ninety-five") stays hidden
behind thick curtains
of memory. Furtively, we
searched the windows
for a sign.
In the laundry, amidst clever belts
and gears, the tour guide tells
how Engels once cheered
a sagging Marx:
"Think of the Shakers!"
--the words now echoing
through polished, empty
rooms.
Dead dreams pile up like
New Hampshire leaves, but still
this ground feels hallowed,
for here
ideas, powerful as Moscow's
crowds, still speak of purpose,
of simple gifts,
and sharing.
October 23, 1990