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Sunday, August 29, 2021

Day 408 August 29, 2021

 


 

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!

Sunday, August 8, 2021

Day 407 August 8, 2021

                   

 

What does one call the accoutrements of childhood's beauties?

The small unblemished artifice of art that used to be strewn

where we walked and lived, ate and drank, played and slept?


Hudson's used to have milk pitchers made by Hall China

with a picture of Little Bo Peep, no Super Hero.

The food and the touch of art was enough.


Our loves were no concupiscence,

Our thoughtless freedom no accidie,

and shopping was engagement with the

material world in play...

All accounts are due today!