when the land was beautiful to her,
and the clouds were the province
of angels,
the trees shelter,
the fields wide open running.
But her back had not stopped hurting
her for decades now
and her fingers always had a sting
and her eyes red and tired,
and she figured she must be mistaken,
must have heard something in church
about that,
because the earth never was nothing
but work.
with the children in the room
but that didn't keep them from trying,
and they were pretty successful,
some would say,
since they had seven kids now.
He would begin by reaching over
and softly pulling at a slender piece of
her long hair,
wrapping it in his fingers,
and then,
dead tired but still in love,
they would turn toward each other and,
nestled in the warm breathing
of their other babies,
ease their weary minds
with the sex
they knew would likely make them
poorer and richer
all the same time.
and understood it,
and if she could have afforded to,
she'd have had her children's faces
on that mantle.
But instead she decorated
with what she had
and wished hard in winter
for summer
and the flowers she'd eventually find
tp put there.
Poetry: CYNTHIA RYLANT
From: SOMETHING PERMANENT
Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1994