Early Dreams (Section 2, p31)

Don’t call me, father, from blue fog —
Go on alone.

Strange is the forest here:
No echo answers, no shadows fall,
deafened birds don’t hear each other — — —
By the path, a crippled rock kneels like a beggar.

Drought sets in. Pine cones crumble. Needles shed.
Coarse sand sharp and red.
My father can’t find a freshwater spring.
His veins — overstretched strings.
                __________
And I come:
His true sister and sole beloved.
I will never water morning seedlings. Smashed
gold pitchers spill down in ringing shards.
Nor will I weave dowry cloth. Unruly heddles
tangle, the willow bobbin breaks.
Steeds startle and shatter the blue sleigh.
My dowry chests are nailed with heavy iron —
No one will carry them across the threshold. 

 
   Previous    Next