When she was a little girl not much more than three
She sat upon my father’s shoulders, taller than a tree,
Pulled his hair, his nose, his ears and sang a song,
“You can grow on top of me,” she sang,
“I can grow on top of you.”
And looking down from my father’s shoulders, looking down at me
She sang another verse of the song she always sang:
“You can grow along side of me
I can grow along side of you,”
In the long light shining afternoon.
And my father sang her song himself in his sweet baritone
While he carried her along on his shoulders
With her hands in his long red hair,
With his brown eyes smiling,
With his freckled arms holding her soft white legs.
He sang, and my sister sang and I did too.
The trees held hands across the road and up the hill.
The sun swayed in the sky above.
Clouds and shadows danced up in the sky
Deep in the woods behind, about,
Along the river banks, and down
The stairs, the marble stairs on the marble hill,
The walking stairs from one place to the next higher on the hill
Where we went to sing and to see.
To see and to sing goodbye to the sun
Until it had gone beyond our song
Robed in all the glowing colors of tomorrow.