Along the Kentucky River on first May; <br /> You strode tall, I stumbled, over roots <br /> of old oaks that ridged across our rough path: <br /> bright in new leafy growth, <br /> Nature's cynics giggled, girdled, showing their ages <br /> in deep rings and dingy bark. <br /> Then ritual cries of Isis rose up in me <br /> and I boldly wished to kiss you <br /> beside a cold brook <br /> where willow trees stuck long-fingered, <br /> delicately-nailed branches into very springs <br /> of rivers under granite; Oh! how hard the memory lingers <br /> of that freezing, rushing passion <br /> gushing out of dark caves in sheer gray rock.<br /><br />Edith Scott Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/kentucky-mayday/
