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,

A pond,

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. 

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