Saturday, June 18, 2011

Bringing living things in

In an ideal world, we could all sleep under the stars nightly, live on tree fruit and toads, and learn how to chirp to the birds to find what adventures lie along their migration path. To compensate for this serious impediment I like to bring the living things inside to die alongside me, roses from down International Blvd, loquats from the neighbor's tree, tiny cherries & peaches (?) from Jeff's old backyard, and large clippings of mint from the Wiggly House's overgrown effortless garden. Summer is bursting with female parts, fruits and pollen and bees lookin' all plump from nectar and brown ladybugs falling in my hair.
At Urban Ore today I found a seemingly limitless stack of Joan Baez vinyls: Rosie is actually mimicking her operatic croon.

The trees they grow high,
the leaves they do grow green
Many is the time my true love I've seen
Many an hour I have watched him all alone
He's young,
but he's daily growing.

Father, dear father,
you've done me great wrong
You have married me to a boy who is too young
I'm twice twelve and he is but fourteen
He's young,
but he's daily growing.

Daughter, dear daughter,
I've done you no wrong
I have married you to a great lord's son
He'll be a man for you when I am dead and gone
He's young,
but he's daily growing.

Father, dear father, if you see fit
We'll send him to college for another year yet
I'll tie blue ribbons all around his head
To let the maidens know that he's married.

One day I was looking o'er my father's castle wall
I spied all the boys aplaying at the ball
My own true love was the flower of them all
He's young, but he's daily growing.

And so early in the morning
at the dawning of the day
They went out into the hayfield
to have some sport and play;
And what they did there,
she never would declare
But she never more complained of his growing.

At the age of fourteen, he was a married man
At the age of fifteen, the father of a son
At the age of sixteen, his grave it was green
Have gone, to be wasted in battle.
And death had put an end to his growing.

I'll buy my love some flannel
and I will make a shroud
With every stitch I put in it,
the tears they will pour down
With every stitch I put in it,
how the tears will flow
Cruel fate has put an end to his growing.

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