Three days after the
coup's defeat, with
communism all but
buried, I came to
Canterbury to
find a peg to
mark the way.
The houses rose like white
birch on the hill,
guardians of a vision
that still draws
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 on the
grounds the last Shaker
sister ("a bit reclusive at
ninety-five") stays hidden
behind thick curtains
of memory. Furtively, we
search the windows
for a sign.
In the laundry, amidst belts
and clever gears, the tour guide tells
how Engels once cheered
a sagging Marx:
"Think of the Shakers!"
--words which echo
through the polished, empty
rooms.
Dead dreams pile up like
New Hampshire leaves, but still
this ground feels hallowed,
for on the hill
an idea, powerful as Moscow's
crowds, still speaks of purpose,
of simple gifts
and sharing.
