In morning musings, I’ve agency:
And when my mind runs wild
I can remind it,
And lead it as I would a child
To things at hand, back
To book or stove or
My hand is patient, waiting kindly,
but firm, as
My little-girl thoughts hang back;
She is rambunctious—as children should be—
But comes when I ask.
In afternoon and ev’n, too
I am mistress of my mind and
Would I were a harder mistress!
Sometimes the child skips outside
Without a hand to stop her—and I must take a run
With her round the yard, falling in a heap at the end in a tangle of limbs, laughing
Brushing off smells of the cold and grass
To order, reason, older things.
But nighttime thoughts are hers
And she spends them outside: joyous liberty.
Why?! The now freed child
Can run, rampant, rollicking,
To focus on the task here, now.
And it is beautiful to watch her run.
I’m thankful she stays—well-train’ed dear—
Within the bounds of my picket fence
I’ve built so carefully
At the edges of even unconscious thought.
But I still wake, not shameful,
For the child is far from satiated from her joyous night of rambling—
No, she wants to explore anew!
And I, woman, must choose to tug her gently
Back into the ordered house.
Though she is pleading and pretty and persuades