To a Child

Dorothy J. Roberts

Scars: now the brown dirt road winds
Only in remembrance, and far away —
The horse my father drove and I beside him,
The crystal atmosphere, the liquid lay
Of meadow larks, and farther west
The curlew’s poignant cry –
All are severed veins of time …

Child, ringed by sidewalks, neat and dry,
And formal lawn, meadowless the young years
Pass for you. Woodless you walk,
Not among the toes of trees where violets
Grow wild and fragrant in the spring.
Grieving, I watch you, mourning how
You will never grieve for that
Earth-nearness I grieve for now.

(1962)