Issue 117, Winter 1990
At seventeen I’ve come to read a poem
At Princeton. Now my young hosts inquire
If I would like to meet Professor Einstein.
But I’m too conscious I have nothing to say
To interest him, the genius fled from Germany just in time.
“Just tell me where I can look at him,” I reply.
Mother had scientific training. I did not;
She loved that line of Meredith’s about
The army of unalterable law.
God was made manifest to her in what she saw
As the supreme order of the skies.
We lay in the meadow side by side, long summer nights