Monday, April 20, 2009

Farm Wife

Farm Wife

Hers is the clean apron, good for fire
Or lamp to embroider, as we talk slowly
In the long kitchen, while the white dough
Turns to pastry in the great oven,
Sweetly and surely as hay making
In a June meadow; hers are the hands,
Humble with milking, but still now
In her wide lap as though they heard
A quiet music, hers being the voice
That coaxes time back to the shadows
In the room's corners. O, hers is all
This strong body, the safe island
Where men may come, sons and lovers,
Daring the cold seas of her eyes.

~R.S. Thomas



Blogger BubblesandMoney said...

I really enjoy Wendell Berry's poetry. I can picture was he is describing with his words.

9:54 AM  
Blogger Dana said...

Yes, it did remind me of a Hannah Coulter type.... at first the words were warm (baking in oven), but then they turned cold.... (in the seas of her eyes)


10:16 AM  
Blogger Laura said...

Thanks for letting me know about the poetry!

Yes, Dana, I thought that last line really turned the poem around from comfort and contentment to... something else.

10:18 AM  

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