The Ancient

Things have changed worldwide today, but not the joy Of spring. The sounds I heard when yet a child Of cataracts tumbling with joy, the air rinsed of alloy And magic in all things pastoral, all things wild My son walks around the place a walkman to his ear He will not hear the sparrow's song Shall not know the canaries in gold are seen here His dreams to the automaton belong. Look at them, their feet all wrap, expensive in plastic Shoes, they cannot feel between their toes The water river running free, cornered in this tragic Sense of progress, full of unbalmed woes. Here where the sun laddles her warmth down the sky On bowl of stoops made from concrete They collect to laugh, as maggots lad by a fly While green grass and park lay obsolete. Before there was a phone, my mother called down The mountainside and telegraphed her joy A new grandchild swaddled in the rising sound Was introduced by what tradition employed. We ran to school eight miles away and never grew Obese, that training unclogged us to learn Something each day by nature brought to view Wrapped in beauty, and made us yearn For things we could not make, love, honor, freedom A sense of greatness beyond our state A simple ant could teach us prolific vaults of wisdom A patterned sky could be a living slate.