John Reese Bessit

1787-1809


Raised in solitude
near Glynwedd, Wales
in a rotted cabin miles from anyone
in the deepest hollow of a dark wood
in fear and trembling

by an only father who failed to end the boy's life
by the age of four
by neglect and drowning;
not by a lack of effort,
but by drunkenness and cowardice
and his own early death.

John Reese Bessit didn't survive,
he LIVED.

The boy didn't know
jealousy or lust,
anger or pride.
He had new life.
He knew God,
new leaves and rainfall,
and always a new sunrise.

He listened to the birds.
I mean, he LISTENED to them.
He learned to whistle
to the exact pitch, each song
to each bird in the forest
to tell his thoughts, and in turn
to be trusted with their
well-traveled tales.

In the cover of night
he would slink down to the murky pond
to wade in the water
and wedge himself
beneath the muddy banks
to wiggle his body in the slime
and stare up at the moon.

John Reese Bessit
emerged from his wood
at the edge of town
at the age of 22
at dusk.