My child who runs To discover that weeds Are sometimes flowers And who gathers colors With joyful eyes How close you come to Eden To yellow mornings Of sun rising on the Fragrant truth of Perfect ripened berries To the barefoot miracle of grass And spider silverwebs Brushing your face At the outset of meadow journeys. Dance! Dance, my child To the music of Motherwords and sky. Before times takes Notice . . . Dance.