Thy mind is like the field of Spring
In all her finest covering,
And every sense which thou partake
An aspect of the scene doth make.
All visions which thine eye devours
Bedeck the earth with April flowers,
And music which thine ear records
Adorns the wind in lustrous chords.
Each scent which shades the nose and tongue
And gathers fruit in mouth and lung
Adds flavor to this sweet design
Which lingers on the tongue like wine.
So let my fingers weave the spell
And lightly trace each hill and dell
To stir to life each bud and bloom
And draw a woman from her womb.
Take care, dear child, to tend thy needs
And keep thy garden free of weeds.
A lingering doubt, misplaced despair
Can lay thy harvest cold and bare,
And self-despise, like salt, can spoil
The richest and most fertile soil
And make thy soul as grim and black
As dying Carthage, burned and sacked.
Avoid the tumult and the din
Of bloodied thoughts and wicked men;
The world is filled with morbid themes,
So drink from unpolluted streams.
Then when thy childhood's come to pass
Look upon the world at last;
To weigh its truths against its lies
View this world with serpent's eyes.
Then plant thy dreams and let the rain
Raise up full stalks of hearty grain.
Guard them from the worm and crow
Who'd steal thy harvest ere it grows
And never cease to gather themes
Which nourish the soil and sow new dreams.
Then finally when it's time to reap
Before the earth must lie in sleep,
Take home thy store to keep and share
With others who have given thee care.
Then contemplate next growing season
And yet more fragrant flowers of reason.
George Chadderdon © 1993