Lorna the Librarian

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.

Gloria.

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,

Gloria.

I take my oath and on it I persevere.

The mysteries,

My heart, sweet warrior sparrow

We flutter airborne.

This old lady laughs.

Hallelujah.

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.