Poetry

Like two wrestlers etched
around some ancient urn,

we’d lace our hands, then wrench
each other’s wrists back

Last of the Romany race,
Haply a king and queen,
Meal it with sorry grace
On the highway border of green.

This land is heavy with sleeping generations
Of young forefathers who thrust back the hills
And cleared their pastures of blackberry blossoms, planting

Deep roll the breakers where we run
  Along the sands,
And up the blue deep rolls the sun
  From sunny lands.

Dusky and strong,
You lift high your branches,
Mighty magnolia;

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

Beloved, practice patience with this tongue,
Restricted to a single argument.
O, suffer that the voice has left unsung

Children’s voices in the orchard
Between the blossom- and the fruit-time:
Golden head, crimson head,