One day we will visit Ireland, the land of my ancestors
where they carve little figures of pigs out of a thing
called connamara marble
And where I climbed when I was eight, the castle ruins
and saw my great grandparents headstones in the old cemeteries of Kerry.
I never remember seeing in Dublin the statue made of Oscar Wilde
Though knowing who he is now, I would take more time to see his likeness in fired metal.
The man who gave his life to everything, when it caused him to suffer equally. The equal to any contemporary theologian,
I am bound to read his essays on life again.
The irish breakfasts and the
gatherings with family for Wren Night.
Past memories, traditions that went
into the ground with my grandparents
when they were buried.
I wish to be revived