We each carry
our own little loads,
tunnel and tunnel
through the dark, rich
loam of mind and soul
and history,
kicking up those
tiniest of mountains:
the molehills and holes
which may fell a horse.
I see it, some days,
on their faces--
too young, yet,
for sophistication--
the agony of finding themselves
too much, of itching
in their skins,
like a cicada must itch
just before a last splitting
frees the winged creature
within. It will not be long, now,
before the air thrums
to their singing.
And old ones, too,
have each their own wrestling,
like my grandma--
who forgot much
that helped her know herself,
and us, but continued
to sense the emptiness
long after she could no longer recall
what once filled it.
I think we must all,
we must
(huddled in the dark
against the roots
of our seventeen-year wait)
feel the tremors
of a summer wind
running warm through
maple canopies
alive with sun--
we must all sense the stretch
of wind and wing.
our own little loads,
tunnel and tunnel
through the dark, rich
loam of mind and soul
and history,
kicking up those
tiniest of mountains:
the molehills and holes
which may fell a horse.
I see it, some days,
on their faces--
too young, yet,
for sophistication--
the agony of finding themselves
too much, of itching
in their skins,
like a cicada must itch
just before a last splitting
frees the winged creature
within. It will not be long, now,
before the air thrums
to their singing.
And old ones, too,
have each their own wrestling,
like my grandma--
who forgot much
that helped her know herself,
and us, but continued
to sense the emptiness
long after she could no longer recall
what once filled it.
I think we must all,
we must
(huddled in the dark
against the roots
of our seventeen-year wait)
feel the tremors
of a summer wind
running warm through
maple canopies
alive with sun--
we must all sense the stretch
of wind and wing.
It has been too cold this year for the maple canopies to send the sap running through the floem or zylem or wherever it runs. But I am itching. I want to see if I have any wings left to unfold. You watch your young students and wonder what and where they will sing. And watch your grandma, like me, forgetting so much. Thank you for helping me remember all these things
ReplyDeleteYou are most welcome. I bet you still have wings. May God bless you in that unfolding . . .
ReplyDeleteA shivers-down-the-spine poem. This is surely one of your very best ever.
ReplyDeleteWhat an especially lovely thing to say about a poem! Thank you!
DeleteThis is a very beautiful poem, and one that I must re-read, and linger with awhile.
ReplyDelete