You muddled through your thesis on landscape and soul and body
But you never published a book,
You never even wanted to, or maybe you did
By the time I pass the rusted outside porch fridge
To move through the lamp-lit kitchen
And enter your living room in the country,
Full with an old hymnal and plenty of afghans,
I am ready to write on your walls
Tender, forthcoming, bucolic
Words on plaster in support
Of this best-seller
Set on an old tobacco farm
Sun wrinkled, honest, incandesant with just enough
Cast-iron and lace
To stand the test of time.
Even when the oaks have fallen
And the snapdragon no longer goes to seed
when your back suffers to straighten, after years submitted not
but to field and to prayer
this will all matter.
Because you have written
From what you’ve been given,
Not what you’d imagined.
This one does it all
And not out of defiance or ambition
discipline and grace and circumstance
you are crafting
That will keep us reading
Until the end.