Poem: Match Collector III

Part III of an autobiographical poem that may one day reach its conclusion.

To read Part I and II, published together, click here.

III. First Year
Say I’m growing old, but add, Jenny kiss’d me.

You were not naked there. Not yet.
I covered you in clouds and wreathed
Your waist in fresh bright air, unbreathed.
The moon and sun had never set.

Then lo! four rivers, a million trees.
The snakes had feet and walked abroad,
The goldfish swam a wild white flood,
I covered you in bumblebees.

We’ll never know what children might
Have come, what dreams might have unfurled.
This is the best of possible worlds,
Je ne regrette rien. Quite right.

It was an Eden of delights,
The frogs that gloated by the pond,
The owl calls to conclave spawned.
It was a garden, but it was night.

It was a difficult year, the fall
was worst, winter a relief.
Just say we’re growing old, in grief
Of joy, beyond the garden wall.

Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets in your list, here’s one to add:
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
But never say I lost that bet.

Naked you may have been, by then.
Remember when the world was new,
And empty, but for me and you?
Then finally, the sun’s amen.

From sky, from earth, from sky again,
The babies made the world anew
And fuller than mere me and you.
Our God feeds all the sons of men.