The father turns the key to the safety of quiet
He has installed for the house, and with a kiss
Consoles the birthing mother without riot
Of hospital or other strange abyss.
The window, not sense, will teach the child trees.
Storybooks will relate the warmth of June.
Her mindless teeth mush the easy peas,
Her mother munches a soft-sinking prune.
For she remembers when the days were crystal
She wooed this man who cried outside the bar.
Her life then fled as though – from a pistol.
Weeping, she strums her thin homemade guitar,
With eyes that never had time; never brooded,
But found the effortless path and concluded.
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