That morn I said I shall be a love to thee,
until our glances cool and fall to dust,
then swore an oath, “Like Corn I’ll never be…
that spots and blights and drooping falls to rust!”
That morn I said that I would shelter thee,
and house and home I always would maintain
then swore an oath, “Like wheat I’ll never be…
that bends to wind and’s beaten down by rain.”
That morn I said that I would succor thee,
protect from sickness and all ill-turn
I swore an oath, “Like rice I’ll never be…
nor abandon thee to the flood or burn.”
The scarves and mittens of our years are hung
upon the pegs of the winter mudroom door,
like bright-eyed kids whose Christmas hymns are sung
yet keep on finding needles on the floor.
Our fate was sticks tossed up into the air,
plane trees and sycamore, some oak, some birch;
and fell as house, as home… as silverware!
Then snowy boots… Maura… Livi… upon the porch!
