by Ronald Tobey
Meadow grass grows at the doorstep,
Fruit trees reach to the eaves,
Apple blossoms sweep the windowsills,
Indolent summer of shimmering leaves,
Haying by the Fourth of July,
By August, apples and cinnamon and pie,
Orchard House of in-and-outs, crannies and nooks,
Little women, stories, and books.
In your yearning womb,
Your daughter films the pastoral scene,
From her upper floor room,
Witnesses the ancient dream.
Your hand flits with desire,
Traces scripts for Daphne on my barn-jacket arm
Damp with sparkling rain,
Your eyes watery with relief
As ebbs away, deep, hidden pain.
“No suburban neatness near my log home,
Cows and horses grazing in view,
Tangled hedge rows
Of Lady Bank roses,
We shall plant an apple grove,
Build on the second floor
A reading alcove.
“Every sheltered place
We shall consecrate
Shall delve and dive
Between my thighs
Shall fill my chalice of love
With your liquid fire
Daring our imaginations
To write in bedded grass
Stories for generations to last.