Somebody else always owned the road.
We had right-of-way to our gate.
Somebody else owns the fences.
I pay no mind to fences,
not any more,
not as much as the neighbor's mule,
the white mule that jumped fences,
liking Grandfather's pastures.

The waterfall leaps
  a split-rock fence,
    shaking its white mane.

Somebody else keeps the deed in his mantel clock.
Somebody else finds the tax-bills in his mail-bag.
Somebody else owns the barn,
the old barn where I found the new lamb
with the long tail,
the lamb that ran,
that cried when it caught in the wagon-wheel
and wriggled free when we tried to help.

The waterfall shakes white lambs'-tails
  with music of ewe-bells
     from the hill-meadows.

Grandfather owned a waterfall.
Now it is mine --
  all its light
    (flash of fingerling trout
      and scarlet crayfish,
      mica-spangled sand
      in the sky-clear pool)
  and all its shade
      (gray water ouzel darting through mist;
       sweet moss-dampness
       where maiden hair fern
       green-veils the steep rock.)

Somebody else owns the farm.
Somebody else owns the house.
(But not the house Grandfather lived in,
not his house that burned
when he died
going back after papers he kept in the clock.)

   The waterfall
     is white smoke rising
       and rainbow flame burning
          in an edge of sun.

Grandfather owned a waterfall.
Now it is mine . . .