For a Ladies' Magazine
c 1970
Dear is my family,
dear my home,
and yet
I like to leave
at times
my tended garden, trimly hedged,
to watch unruly things that grow
and go and tramp alone
to watch the violet
in deep of woods
unplanned
and rest my head upon moist weeds,
disown all wordly cares.
And, as I do,
at level with my eyes I see
around the violet there is
dogshit
which would be alright, too,
except a war is coming
and I have no place to hide
my children |