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The Worthless Son-in-Laws
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Francesca the Field of Flowers in Our House
The sun gets up, but we can wait
Morning glory wants to sleep a little late.
After an hour, it will be time
To wake my pretty, procrastinating columbine.
You're as full of life as they come
My joyful peppermint geranium;
Calm and kind, what a spirit you've got,
I'm in awe--you are a true forget-me-not.
It's Saturday, in field and arbor,
In the greening garden--all over.
You're pulling flats in an antique wagon
Painted poppies following my fine snapdragon;
And there's a smile--I hope you know
I want you to be my only heirloom rose.
In the yard, new leaves,
Slow honeybees, drunk with spring.
And I am buzzing with that sense of purpose,
I am dizzy, doing circles in the doorway;
I'm homing in on a favorite--
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It's you, it's you, it's you--and I will have no other.
If we take a walk around Cedar Lake
I always want to travel in your jasmine wake;
If we're on the couch, I take a look:
I see a delicate delphinium, pressed into a book.
Folding up the evening hours
With my sweet south-of-the-border sunflower,
You're my comfort, you're my love,
You're my shooting star, my lily, my foxglove . . .
In the air, vines climbing;
Roots intertwining underground.
And I just want to put you in my pocket,
Pick you up, and dance you down the hallway;
I'm holding on to a favorite--
It's you, it's you, it's you--and I will have no other.
Every moment, every hue, fully saturated;
You're the field of flowers growing in our house.
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