The Fruits of Love’s Labor

May I write a song for us?
Maybe about our family tree?
How about our hawking birds and stinging bees?
The scheme of our bedroom behind that brass-railed bed?
All the promises made in crazy loving consent?
Our once tended garden, our weeding and cutting?
How the grass and the hedges once grew but then withered?
How our earth once got turned, then stood still and untilled,
unwarmed by sun and passed over by rain?
The way our eyes locked at first upon each other,
then the door swung shut blowing open the shutters
on a world unsurmised beyond what we’d guessed.
Most tastefully penned, with our love heaped upon it,
just say the word, and I’ll toss out a sonnet.

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