The Young Voice in the Old

 
I was a wild thing and free
and I walked the wet woods
with their black bark gleaming
and the gold silver haze  
of oak leaves springing –
five miles upon a holiday
to see Aunt Tessie with my friends …
 
or crept downstream around the bend
where grassy banks give way
to oozy bog with tufts of green
and when together and unseen
he gently gave a kiss to me
I was wild then and free
 
Later on a clear crisp morning
when my boys would make their schemes
and I’d step out to catch them
my aims dissolved to dreams
to see that axe cleft in the log
the way my father left it there –
 
the boys would come then
and I’d threaten
or in a pout, I’d go tell Tom, forgetting
to feel, or let them see
I too was wild and free

                    ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 When all had gone
then I was knitting
watching winter fade
stitching distance to each son
and my farthest, dearest one
 
sometimes the cat would scratch the door
and lead me, walking on before
to lace-branched lanes of elms on fire
–  on such an evening of desire
I still was free
 
                   ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
 
I ride now in my blanket
this grandchild echo guides me
down the gray and twilight road
which cuts the fields
the houses build on
 
I draw the cover close
as jolting shakes my bones
and feel the chill Earth’s other blanket
brings soon to comfort me
 
                   ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
 
This land is settled
there can be no yearning
for far-off, tree-soft hills
only turning of the restless spirit:
freed forever:  Spirit, speak of me
tell them I am Free
 
                                                (a “posy” for Myrtle G., 1970s)