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Poem	Now in the suburbs and the falling light I followed him, and now down sandy road Whitter than bone-dust, through the sweet Curdle of fields, where the plums Dropped with their load of ripeness, one by one. Mile after mile I followed, with skimming feet, After the secret master of my blood, Him, steeped in the odor of ponds, whose indomitable love Kept me in chains. Strode years; stretched into bird; Raced through the sleeping country where I was young, The silence unrolling before me as I came, The night nailed like an orange to my brow. How should I tell him my fable and the fears, How bridge the chasm in a casual tone, Saying, "The house, the stucco one you built, We lost. Sister married and went from home, And nothing comes back, it's strange, from where she goes. I lived on a hill that had too many rooms; Light we could make, but not enough of warmth, And when the light failed, I climbed under the hill. The papers are delivered every day; I am alone and never shed a tear." At the water's edge, where the smothering ferns lifted Their arms, "Father!" I cried, "Return! You know The way. I’ll wipe the mudstains from your clothes; No trace, I promise, will remain. Instruct You son, whirling between two wars, In the Gemara of your gentleness, For I would be a child to those who mourn And brother to the foundlings of the field And friend of innocence and all bright eyes. 0 teach me how to work and keep me kind." Among the turtles and the lilies he turned to me The white ignorant hollow of his face.
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