In Autumn, <br />as in Spring, <br />the sap flows, <br />the sap wishes to race <br />against heartbeats <br />before the winter, <br />before the winter <br />buries us <br />in her usual shroud of ice. <br /> <br />I turn to you <br />knowing that <br />unrequited love <br />is good <br />for poetry, <br />knowing that pain <br />will nudge the muse <br />as well as anything, <br />knowing that you <br />are afraid, fettered <br />to a life <br />you do not love, <br />& so unfree <br />that freedom seems <br />more fearful even <br />than the familiar <br />business <br />of being <br />a grumbling slave. <br /> <br />I lived <br />that way <br />once, <br />& I know <br />that freedom <br />is its own reward, <br />that it propagates <br />itself <br />by means <br />of runners, <br /> <br />that nobody <br />gives it to you, <br />not even me <br />to you, <br /> <br />but that you <br />must seize it <br />with your own <br />two quaking hands <br />& pluck <br />the strawberry <br />it bears <br />in the green <br />ungrumbling <br /> <br />Spring.<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-whom-it-may-concern/
