The Womanhood of the Woods

Oh my tongue wrapped around machines, And roll on the braids of growing green, I scold the trees of feathering beauty That hold too high in dreams my day.

My blossom dipped in soothing bread, It shrinks in space, and gives to me, Beneath the sun burnished with gold A wild cry erupts in joyous nature’s glow.

Let too long frail days linger on—the bloom, And the cycle of night grow thin With the passion yet unseen, I will relish the motherly nature I need.

• Gwendolyn Brooks