September 29, 2012

• A Song of Home

   

  

   

  Were I to make a poem of a day
  Of housework, I’d not write of dust and brooms
  So much as of the sun in spotless rooms,
  Of bowls of freshly cut sweetpeas—I’d say
  Less of vegetables and kinds of bread,
  Of endless dishes washed and scraped and dried,
  And more of children’s hunger satisfied—
  I’d tell of warm soft lips on mine instead.

  O more than ceaseless duties I would sing
  Of happy hearts and of contentment, of
  Ambitious dreams—yes, more than anything
  I’d tally every blessing, wherein love
  Is greatest of them all: is the leaven
  Exalting toil, turning home to Heaven.

   

  poem by Ethel Romig Fuller
  from Kitchen Sonnets

  Thank you, Carmon, for pointing me to Oregon’s third poet laureate.

  • 1:50 pm
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