Sittin’ under that poplar tree,
wonderin’ which breeze,
from north or south,
would stop them leaves from tremblin’,
a Thought was born.
fingers outstretched in counting,
they say, begins the Devil’s number,
they say, begins the comin’ of Omega,
they say, that they the Alpha,
like them leaves,
they quiver with the breeze!
They say, these three feet,
these six beats makin’ syllables is wrong;
but ain’t that how real Change begins?
Under that poplar tree
I thought to be
as did my complicated ancestory—
that is to say matriarchs in patriarchy,
Underground stirrin’ up Humanity—
six syllables heard of yet unseen,
i thought to be:
i know…silly me!.