Maybe you and I will run a shop
with pines above and looking out to sea,
where passing walkers pause, and dip inside,
and smile, and talk about their day, and laugh,
and potter round, and loiter dreamily.
With clothes you made and handmade toys and clocks,
wooden things and stones in indigo,
with paintings on the walls, with shells below.
And friends may settle in the garden where
we’ll serve them cakes, and scones with jam, and tea.
Maybe you and I will find a house
alone among the flowers and the trees,
and give our things to charity, and pack
a suitcase, just enough to get us by,
a home with stony paths, and plants, and bees.
We shall not have a hundred cups, but time,
to stop, to be. To cook, to talk, to read,
to craft and fashion things, our hours freed,
we’ll even learn to play some cards, our chance
to while away those hours as we please.
Maybe you and I won’t need to run,
we’ll choose to stand, to stay, defend the farm,
and keep those wolves at bay, who turn and glare,
a jealous fire burning in their eyes,
as glowing coals succumb to winter’s charm.
This is our land, no reason not to stay;
and yet it does not matter either way.
Sunlight streamers dance at end of day,
the lone earth shadow rising in the sky.
you and I.