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Grown Wild Youth has its own world Separate and intense under A different sun more mellow Than a daffodil, wetter than A furnace until warm winds Come to cool donned pearl, Each drop on pine straw mere And soon forgotten by willow Sounds through leaves, sounds that can Seize attention beneath the pines. Where does wind come or go? Unlike our human purposes, It does not know. I first thought It dreads and fear, the moan and sighs, For truth is terror to the child. Beyond that small event that knows, I became a man, protecting us. I understand what has wind wrought. Its atoms, flying with joy, go by. No terror there, it is our souls grown wild. |
Additional Notes:
When I was very young and we would visit my Grandfather's farm, I would often go out on a hot, sweaty day and sit in the shade under the Australian Pines, actually a member of the Eucalyptus family, with long straw/needle like leaves. The sound of even a gentle breeze through the tree's limbs was the most terrifying sound I have ever heard in my entire life.
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