by Stanley Kunitz

    1

    On my way home from school

    up tribal¹ Providence² Hill

    past the Academy ballpark

    where I could never hope to play

    I scuffed³ in the drainage ditch

    among the sodden⁴ seethe⁵ of leaves

    hunting for perfect stones

    rolled out of glacial time

    into my pitcher's hand；

    then sprinted⁶ lickety-

    split on my magic Keds

    from a crouching⁷ start，

    scarcely touching⁸ the ground

    with my flying skin

    as I poured it on

    for the prize of the mastery

    over that stretch of road，

    with no one no where to deny

    when I flung myself down

    that on the given course

    I was the world's fastest human.

    2

    Around the bend

    that tried to loop me home

    dawdling⁹ came natural

    across a nettled¹⁰ field

    riddled¹¹ with rabbit-life

    where the bees sank sugar-wells

    in the trunks of the maples¹²

    and a stringy old lilac

    more than two stories tall

    blazing with mildew¹³

    remembered a door in the

    long teeth of the woods.

    All of it happened slow：

    brushing the stickseed off，

    wading¹⁴ through jewelweed

    strangled by angel's hair，

    spotting the print of the deer

    and the red fox's scats.

    Once I owned the key

    to an umbrageous¹⁵ trail

    thickened with mosses¹⁶

    where flickering¹⁷ presences

    gave me right of passage

    as I followed in the steps

    of straight-backed Massassoit

    soundlessly heel-and-toe

    practicing my Indian walk.

    3

    Past the abandoned quarry¹⁸

    where the pale sun bobbed

    in the sump of the granite¹⁹，

    past copperhead ledge²⁰，

    where the ferns gave foothold，

    I walked， deliberate，

    on to the clearing，

    with the stones in my pocket

    changing to oracles²¹

    and my coiled ear tuned²²

    to the slightest leaf-stir.

    I had kept my appointment.

    There I stood in the shadow，

    at fifty measured paces，

    of the inexhaustible oak，

    tyrant²³ and target，

    Jehovah of acorns²⁴，

    watchtower of the thunders，

    that locked King Philip's War

    in its annulated core

    under the cut of my name.

    Father wherever you are

    I have only three throws

    bless my good right arm.

    In the haze²⁵ of afternoon，

    while the air flowed saffron，

    I played my game for keeps——

    for love， for poetry，

    and for eternal life——

    after the trials of summer.

    4

    In the recurring²⁶ dream

    my mother stands

    in her bridal gown

    under the burning lilac，

    with Bernard Shaw and Bertie

    Russell kissing her hands；

    the house behind her is in ruins；

    she is wearing an owl's face

    and makes barking noises.

    Her minatory²⁷ finger points.

    I pass through the cardboard doorway²⁸

    askew²⁹ in the field

    and peer down a well

    where an albino walrus³⁰ huffs.

    He has the gentlest eyes.

    If the dirt keeps sifting³¹ in，

    staining the water yellow，

    why should I be blamed？

    Never try to explain.

    That single Model A

    sputtering³² up the grade

    unfurled a highway behind

    where the tanks maneuver³³，

    revolving³⁴ their turrets³⁵.

    In a murderous time

    the heart breaks and breaks

    and lives by breaking.

    It is necessary to go

    through dark and deeper dark

    and not to turn.

    I am looking for the trail.

    Where is my testing-tree？

    Give me back my stones！

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