When I was a young whip
knowing neither windsong not willowness
men kin stood tall in the night bulb glow
near the vinegared pot turning pickles.

I sniffed in stories like angel breath
tales of hunting and stalking
the fowl and fare
of forest and field,

my child's mind free prowling
like a mountain lion,
I was mouth and eyes
wide to suck in earfuls,

for I was in the house of fables
and rode the caravan folk fantasy
through the free dream circuits
when days and nights were one long song.

Now I have heard the grind of logic,
the cantered speech of argument;
I know rhetoric's lull,
and the spell of speculation.

So gather 'round, dead elders,
fathers and grandfathers all, I am
lonely for your magic tales,
and for you.