I Did Not Know

The pastures and sky turn dusky,

And the supper call comes faintly through the softening air. 

My older brother on one side and my older sister on the other

Pick me up by the armpits and run.

They know I can't match their speed on my own,

 and they are intent on speed--

To make it before their arrival is deemed tardy

And also perhaps because it is, after all, supper, lamplight, home.

I am suspended, I am flying, as they race through the fields

 toward the barn and house and lights.

I look down and see with surprise the grasses--wave after wave--

 washing, slipping, under my suspended toes,

The lines and curves of their muted and bending blades

 slipping pell-mell beneath me. 


I did not know the grasses were minutes and years and time--

 falling steadily and rapidly in our wake,

 hardly seen before fallen far behind us.

I did not know that it was sad, or something like sad,

But I knew that it was a wonder.  

Forty years have gone by, and I do not know what we had for supper--

 though usually I'm quite interested in such things.

Forty years have gone by, and I still do not know what the thing is--

 the thing that is like sad but has some other name.  

Forty years have gone by, and I still know that it was a wonder.

I have not forgotten.

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