He's too old, this child with the round, small
face, the serious eyes, in a world
that is too old--wars and waves,
hunger and holocaust, fire and flood and blood--
and he asks me this: were there fewer disasters
when I was a child?
I think not, but I say I paid less attention.
And what of now: I am like a dryad,
more concerned with whether there will be rain
to water my roots, with stretching my bare arms
in the warm sun, with keeping the woodcutter's ax
far from my tree,
as if the world of man were somehow
distant and disconnected from me
and all it takes is not
reading the news.
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