What was he thinking of, coming here?
A new world? A rich initiative
For a young body raised in an old country?
He brought with him all the old concepts
To join with others already here.
There was no new world. He brought with him illusions
In large measure. It was in his blood
And he was surrounded by a vision certainly.
As if a tree might grow in air. That, too, came with him.
I am the grandson of all this.
My own children accept as inevitable
The way things are. It is their birthright.
Floods, drought – all excess – belong to them
As well as the way the sun strikes down.
Somehow they have the language for it.
My grandfather's voice is still in my head
But I cannot divine what was in his heart.
We make our own myths and mysteries.
