Granite Temples

Tenaciously I clung to outworn dreams,
I would be young and keep the mind June-burdened.
(A catacomb for ghosts, I learned, with gleams
From dead moons flickering) Now autumn-guerdoned.
Mature as earth, I taste the wine of youth;
Embrace October, and I hear no sighing
From musty tombs, but clarion calls of truth.
My spirit sings its freedom from the dying:
Reality is stern, but oh, how good
Though kissed more acridly by lips of sorrow,
To build of granite, not of rotting wood,
The temples to adorn the new tomorrow--
Ripe fruit was clinging to a withered bough;
Seeing, I shook the limb and greeted NOW.

Progress

Through winding, narrow, dusty lanes
We drove the old bay mare,
My small son's hands holding the reins,
While on the quiet air
We heard each note the meadow lark
Played on his silver flute.
Now roads are straight and paved. But hark!
The rippling, glad salute
Has grown so slow, as we race by
We hear but one short note.
Hands on the wheel, Son gives a sigh.
A tightening in my throat,
I hear about his dream airplane
And yearn for dusty roads again.