Notes About The Poem
"Grandpa" Etgen, 1920
ALONG THE WOODED EDGE
I reach the wooded edge
in the held breath before sunrise,
October coolness at my back.
I walk eastward, lifting my gaze
expecting blue light~
but dawn arrives golden and warm,
a quiet mercy on my chilled skin.
The wind carries earth, water, and pine.
Then a rustle. I stop. I listen.
My ancestors walk behind me.
“Be still,” they whisper.
“You are the result of the love of thousands before you.”
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