Written on the Birth of My Great Grandson
The moon struggles for position in the windy sky, and the wild mice scurry thru the fertile fields. The clock sweeps the remains of my life into a tidy offering to the eternal mystery, and the mystery offers new life in return.
Now I ease into the Grand Acceptance that takes me on its knee and says, “And there you are once more, little Johnny Jump-up, won’t you dance for us?”
And I’m back in the old Irishman’s living room filled with soldier sons home from the war and their girl friends and wives, my wise Irish/Indian grandmother looking on with great love as they gather round and clap their hands and stomp their feet while I dance my young heart out to McNamara’s Band, a scratchy recording played on a Victor-Victrola.