Where would I be if not with you
in your tiny hand among the Irish yew.
For I was not me, but a wandering daze
away from self, superficial in gaze.
What spirits came and joined me through birth
the delicate mind surrendering to earth.
Wake wake my ancestor’s cry
slipping and falling and there I lie.
The demanding touch of the tiny hand
changing the picture returning to land.
For if not for the dark that I will not rue
I would not rise, hand in hand, Irish yew.