Kentucky Mayday

Along the Kentucky River on first May;
You strode tall, I stumbled, over roots
of old oaks that ridged across our rough path:
bright in new leafy growth,
Nature's cynics giggled, girdled, showing their ages
in deep rings and dingy bark.
Then ritual cries of Isis rose up in me
and I boldly wished to kiss you
beside a cold brook
where willow trees stuck long-fingered,
delicately-nailed branches into very springs
of rivers under granite; Oh! how hard the memory lingers
of that freezing, rushing passion
gushing out of dark caves in sheer gray rock.

by Edith Scott Johnson

Other poems of EDITH SCOTT JOHNSON (2)

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.