The gate ajar,
The front stairs dust with heat and tiles,
I two-stepped over this masonry pile,
To an open front door.
Holding my tiny boy’s hand,
Off-loading six hefty bags,
I yelled, “anybody here?”
I heard whispers, faint laughter,
Silly old masters, dear
Ever present circle
Subterrane of my soul.
Twenty-two twirls throughout years,
My babe is man.
With a broom I sweep and bow,
To jigs and reels.
I drag out trunks, crack them open.
Out bursts a pack of hopes and fears,
Unleashed and dogging my heels.
When I depart will this bulwark disappear?
Will its ribs rise up?
Tibia and femur?
It has happened before,
I take my oath and on it I persevere.
My heart, sweet warrior sparrow
We flutter airborne.
This old lady laughs.
Across Atlantic’s shimmer
We waltz to a gate ajar
Over the Alleghenies
Under the Drinking Gourd
Over and Under
Under and Over
This great tapestry
We the weave
The strathspey, the swing
The glimmers, the gold dust, and the night stars.
Comments on: "Dancing Home" (2)
What a beautiful poem! I love it!!!
You are kind. It is truly from the heart. I would love to tap that. We shall see.