FOR MY SIXTH, AT TEN WEEKS

Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,


Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
Sew on a button and make up a bed.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.


Oh, I’ve grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).


Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).


The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo


But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren’t her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).


The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.


So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

~ Ruth Hulbert Hamilton "Song for a Fift Child"~

BRONZE, POTTERY, LINEN & CLEMANTIS

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose,

topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,

and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:

I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,

so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

~Pablo Neruda ... Sonnet 17~

Happy 8th Wedding anniversary, my love.

You're still the only one that feels like home.