Poems from the
Inside
Seek
the light of day . . .
A Sestina for Maia
A little baby born into this world
arrives so gently cradled in sweet innocence.
It is as pure as freshly driven snow.
It needs but mother's milk, and love, for it to grow.
People passing by discover license
to look, and smile, at such a young thing wild.
If only all our hearts could be as wild
as the next child born unto this wretched world.
For then of hate there could be no room, nor license.
We'd all become as new, in utter innocence.
Love for one another would we grow,
our minds and hearts as pure and white as snow.
Acidic vapors mingle now with snow.
With cruel machines we trample all things wild.
We modify the genes of things that grow.
We've conquered every acre of the world,
and made an end of all our innocence.
For such things we need no cause or license.
Only by authority comes license.
By what authority comes the falling snow?
Why have we lost all sense of innocence?
What right have we to trample all things wild?
What will we make of this small world,
if love within our hearts we do not grow?
Of what use are all the lovely things that grow?
For new born children they take license.
Look into their eyes and feel the world,
as of the hushed and patient silence: falling snow.
For new born children grow all things wild.
By them may we recall our own lost innocence.
To what do we compare such innocence?
Only to woods and streams and fields that grow;
and all the other things we find as wild.
To take such lessons is our only license --
from the silent isolation of the snow;
or from every new born child around the world:
even if it snowed the whole world over,
the license of a loving heart could grow
no more wild, than the innocence of a new born child.
© D. Winter 1999
