Absorbed in planting bulbs, that work of hope, <br />I was startled by a loud human voice, <br />“Do go on working while I talk. Don’t stop!” <br />And I was caught upon the difficult choice— <br />To yield the last half hour of precious light, <br />Or to stay on my knees, absurd and rude; <br />I willed her to be gone with all my might, <br />This kindly neighbor who destroyed a mood; <br />I could not think of next spring any more, <br />I had to re-assess the way I live. <br />Long after I went in and closed the door, <br />I pondered on the crude imperative. <br /> <br />What it is to be caught up in each day <br />Like a child fighting imaginary wars, <br />Converting work into this passionate play, <br />A rounded whole made up of different chores <br />Which one might name haphazard meditation. <br />And yet an unexpected call destroys <br />Or puts to rout my primitive elation: <br />Why be so serious about mere joys? <br />Is this where some outmoded madness lies, <br />Poet as recluse? No, what comes to me <br />Is how my father looked out of his eyes, <br />And how he fought for his own passionate play. <br /> <br />He could tear up unread and throw away <br />Communications from officialdom, <br />And, courteous in every other way, <br />Would not brook anything that kept him from <br />Those lively dialogues with man’s whole past <br />That were his intimate and fruitful pleasure. <br />Impetuous, impatient to the last, <br />“Be adamant, keep clear, strike for your treasure!” <br />I hear the youthful ardor in his voice <br />(And so I must forgive a self in labor). <br />I feel his unrepentant smiling choice, <br />(And so I ask forgiveness of my neighbor).<br /><br />May Sarton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-country-incident/
