Thank You, Golda
A funny girl from Pinsk and Milwaukee
Spoke to me in bed last night.
I met her when she was eight,
Fleeing through the swamp.
Then I saw her again at twenty-one and forty-three, sixty-two and seventy-eight.
She will always be my girl,
And I think I fell for her before anyone else,
When she ran away to Denver for high school.
You might know her as the “Iron Lady” of her nation,
The one who told Americans,
“Don’t be bitterly sorry three months from now
for what you failed to do today”
In speeches that collected four hundred million dollars
To save seven hundred thousand lives.
You might know her as the one
Who housed a thousand new people a day
Along roads she willed into existence,
The only one who could move imperial Charles De Gaulle.
But I know (because she told me)
That her iron exterior was mostly metallic paint.
Behind closed doors she often fought for breath:
She wept in the early days when she could not find work
To feed her children.
She cried at the declaration of independence.
She shook watching refugees come ashore.
Her resources were seldom as formidable as her dreams.
So thank you, Golda.
We haven’t won, yet, but we’ve inherited your dreams.
Combined with your love, they light the way.
Please, comment on my poem here.
I’d love reactions, and my new website needs comments…
http://xbri.wordpress.com/2008/12/27/...
This open post was written 11 months, 1 week ago | V/U/S: 59, 1, 2 | Edit Post | Leave a reply | Report Post
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