My Father's Farm My Mother's Creek

not yet

aware of the limit

of frame and height, place and heaven,

busy with the business of a preface,

or the exposition of a boy,

the storing up of wonder.

and blades of green as high as eyes,

hips of hill and the mystery darkness

given by the stone's cradle of traveling

water,

and who lives there?

I will spend my saturday

not aware of reasons why

or a life without streams,

collecting citizens for my

kingdom,

Where mounds of green become perfect shires of Spring

and choking brooks become the mighty moat.

The walls of youth that will leave me

with the hope of Heaven,

and a second boyhood,

the storing up of wonder.

May '08