Back below a
summer sun of childhood
There is a hot green field,
Twittering with crickets,
Where I walk and run and walk again.
Far along a fence,
In a forgotten sacred corner of the field,
Is a welling spring, clear and cold,
Coming up right out of the ground forever.
I can kneel there
And feel the long grass under flowing water
And put my face into this purest of fountains
And drink till I gasp and wet my hair
And know the water comes from before there was a
field
Or a fence or farmers or any thirsty animal.
Forty years later this spring still rests,
Quiet and green in my younger mind,
While the traffic chatters and busy bodies babble
Outside on the cement.
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