To the Land of My Inquiry

I was dressed too early. Later, down by the river,

down on the flower-flats, there would be baseball games,

races, prizes, boys. Papered with names

the future strode, unseen, unread, forever

down the country roadbed, down to the river.

But I was ten, and dressed too early. Noon

and I stood waiting, whorled to the midst of sun.

Wholly adequate flowers rang mute, a tune

humming a bee song, honeyed and story-spun.

Later, down by the riverflats, there would be fun.

At ten, as now, the hot sun knelt to praise

the bluebells. Kneeling, starched, upon the lawn

I kissed them each, and was adored, and drawn

by puppet strings to dangle, sensing ways

and heights. But on the flats were bats and boys.

To the land of my inquiry, a licit field,

improperly credentialed, late by years

I come, I stand, commanding inner yield

with will unwilled to celebrate my fears.

Now is the eager essential - the decades pass

star-dimmed, in micromirrors sun diminished.

I turn the clover over in the grass,

and wish is question, question never finished.

For I was dressed too early. What a clean

nothingness, a sweet earthy heat.

The strings tugged lightly. Back where the shadows meet,

on the other side of the grassblades, something green

piped the impossible answer I had seen.

Or maybe the sun told me. Though I don't

know if the sun was old enough to know.

But I was dressed too early, poised to go

with games and prizes down by the riverflow.

Under the deep down, all the around ground drew -

something was stalking, something walking new.

But I was dressed too early. Flower-clear

a prophet breathed authentic fire and blew

his nearly trumpet. There was not time to hear.