Gray is my hair – turned by time,
Gray is my robe – trimmed in rain,
Gray is my heart – tried by need,
Gray is my art – light and dark tied,
To them, those whose names I carried inward,
I say, “Thou art not mine,
“No, indeed, for I am truly thine.
I am thy servant – priestess to thee all,
But for all that, I speak now of a fall,
A falling failing of the light once in your eyes,
I summon thee not, but if thou wouldst come?
Then to thy guard posts of America, again?”
This I voice, standing ‘neath the sod,
And before the Stone – cup in hand and light,
I feel the wind, hear hooves of horses!
I shut my eyes and turn about,
To Walk once more from inward to out!
In my footsteps, how many do tread?
Shall they be a force for evil to dread?