zoey and samuel abed within,
without, snow to the eaves on the north side,
mid-morning sun streaming in
the south-facing window, by design.
abed, zoey and samuel in afterglow,
perhaps not our business or concern, but true,
a cast iron cook-stove warms the caravan,
love alone is not quite enough.
a stolen morning, rather the gift
of a morning, not stolen but accepted—
the little ones with hattie for the day,
ezra and issac taking the wagon for supplies.
it would be wrong not to be abed, to let
such a morning pass would be to snub cupid;
or, more plainly, an opportunity
for two to be one, time is precious.
in the high meadow amos sits on the wee porch
of his caravan, in faded union blues,
smoking, his eyes sweeping the vista,
theolonius hobbled nearby, satan, the sheepdog,
at the ready, but the moment is peaceful.
time is precious, it passes effortlessly
among these hills and in town, at hatties',
no one is regretting or pining or wishing.
in a way it is a frieze or a tableau,
such mornings are rare: quietude, snow,
love, musings, children engaged,
a perfect storm of wonderful, such moments
come by chance, not only by chance,
but by design—the work being done
affords opportunity, and the work is done,
and the opportunity does arise.
such moments end with appetite,
appetite for food, or warmth, or more loving.
time passes effortlessly. amos stirs,
hattie scolds a little one, zoey yawns and stretches,
samuel rolls over, closing his eyes,
his appetite, now, is for sleep. time passes,
the winter sun, low, is bright, but offers
little warmth. yes, such moments pass.
it could be that satan's ear prick forward,
that amos senses something amiss,
or it could be that his coffee has grown cold,
he rises—time is relentless.
zoey, with no false modesty, rises too,
mistress of her small, interior world.
on the stove she warms a pot of water
for washing, another for the making of a meal.
the little ones make sweetgrass baskets
with grass they had pulled and cut
upon arriving at the winter camp.
hattie supervises, and scolds if necessary,
but there is little scolding, the little ones
love the task, it isn't, after all, school—
it is saturday at hatties', and that, in its own way,
is the very best place to be on a snowy winter day,
and there will be sledding after the baskets
are put away for later sale in distant places.
a frieze or a tableau, precious time,
opportunities, a perfect storm of quietude.
all that is missing is sound. here it is—
amos whistles, zoey closes a cupboard door,
samuel snores, hattie sings, satan barks,
theolonius snorts, children laugh.
Poetry by one trick pony
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Written on 2021-02-13 at 15:07
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