My Innocent Daughter

I sit and ask why the tears fall, falling -
such petulant tears of the wandering mind.
The land of sunshine and song is calling,
calling me back to the way I could not find.

 

I am now with child, the dark muse of night,
the infant that is born in the birth of dreams.
She has two faces, one dark and one light.
She is born in lightning bolts and roots and streams.

 

Her contradictory smile, caught by chance,
does not betray the secret of its allusion.
The dead look in her devil-may-care glance
reveals no reason for her mock intrusion.

 

I sit and watch and send jealous glances.
She cultivates my envy, as is her plan.
Guarding her autonomy, she dances
away, whispering, "Come catch me, if you can."

 

Then, a tempest wind comes, carved of water,
swallows my joy down the throat of shriveled dreams.
Why did it slay my innocent daughter?
She was born of lightning bolts and roots and streams.

Reviews

[John A Common]

Great poem. Very moving and the ending is very powerfull