Where would I be if not with you
In your tiny hand among the Irish yew
For I was not me, but a wandering daze
Away from me, superficial In gaze
What spirits came and joined me through birth
The delicate mind surrendering to earth
Wake wake my Ancestors cry
Slipping and falling and there I lie
The demanding touch of the tiny hand
Changing the picture returning to land
For if not for the dark that I will not rue
I would not rise , Hand in hand, Irish yew
Claire McClorey