Poet Claude McKay wrote a poem he titled Heritage. I borrowed the poem’s first line, altered it slightly, and a new poem, my own poem, grew from that seed.
Thanks, Mr. McKay.
Now the dead past seems vividly alive
these moments that, as a few stones
link a brook’s wooded shores,
span the banks of day and night,
the golden time, the orange sky.
Myth seeps from the earth,
springs of water, softens this soil,
inviting old stories to creep,
steal away from where time
has buried them. Trolls shed their sleep
and bludgeon stones cushioned
with moss as a child bangs a set kitchen pots.
Dragons empty their lungs of heat and rage,
as the air trembles, cracks.
Fairies, with silver wings, waltz
with fireflies, hover near my ears
to whisper reminders. They remember
from whence I came.