Delights of Husbandry

Cope with getting figs from corn,

Half believe in kittens born from

Less than innocent angels, or instead,

Pray with rasping knees on the bedroom

Floor where the sand was blown from

Many a magnificent Michigan dune.

Fly the moon-eyed, shell-eared kitten

Like a magpie from sycamore to elm!

But it might land at the window of

A neighbor's wife and scare her half

To hell, which is no answer to nor

Substance of the prayer we did not pray.

It always goes back to God, everything,

Word and word, sand and sand, round

And round, asking that supple figs

May climb the corn stalks yet, though He

Is surely more methodical than that,

And man entitled to his piebald hopes.

Oh, Millicent, how handsome the sunset!

Say we were meant for this: standing

Always silhouetted against men's greed,

Saints' hopes, and God's withheld behests,

Always to suck popsickle evenings when

We find no purple figs upon our corn.