Shall poetry be no more a part of life?
When rhyming fairies sent childhood head to pillow?
When youthful scrawls of Milne and Masefield were rife
And poems of love and loss once left words to sow?
Though gray skies and flora called and left subjects spurned,
As surely as childhood slipped quietly from its berth,
Teachers summoned me back and my lectures learned:
No more Dylan’s dying light; Adieu to Wordsworth.
The poets, shelved and displayed throughout my home,
Like Wangero’s quilts, not for everyday use.1
But day leads to decade: creates life’s palindrome.
Now Khayyám lies open with old age’s excuse.
Notes and books filed too long in drawers oh so deep,
Shall bless my years’ journey, with Frost’s words of sleep.
By Barbara Rath Hoover (04/15/2015)
- Everyday Use, by Alice Walker