Of all the poems Iíve ever wanted to write,
thereís one that has the honey-locust blooming,
its thorns still green and malleable in late spring,
the lilt of its flowers strewn across the yard.
This is not that poem, though here in the old house
whose heartpine floors wane at each corner
I can imagine it. That poem will only arrive
when Iím done with houseraising, done with thrift,
done with the blue bowl full of buttermilk
soaking venison I dressed with Peter in the fall.
That poem will arrive only when the two bands
of woven silver are finished, and all the musicís
been played, Peter and Dale have gone home
to their wives and sons, and the floorís swept:
I want to wear one of those rings, to give myself
to the poem when it arrives, to have
the light slanting across the floorboards,
maybe rain on the way, the dooryard in order,
the wind finally rising, the choosing not to.