The Farmhouse
I inherit browns and greens. I wait
for someone to say it’s all
in the past now so I can stuff the
wood stove full of letters written
on paper bags, carefully made envelopes
and illustrations, and while I’m at it
I wait for the yellowed wallpaper to crumble
which is something I can at least sweep up,
tidy and clean. I wait for new colors,
for my life to arrive like an eager dog
on my doorstep. I know what it will take:
it starts with the sun filtered through leaves
hitting my face just so, or it starts
by throwing the windows open
come the first warm day in spring and
it requires something swallowed down
like medicine, maybe the fresh sap
of my own trees or someone
looking at me like I’m worth seeing.
Morgan English is a Vermont poet and textile/garment maker. Her poetry has
appeared in St. Petersburg Review, Literary North and she has been nominated
for Best New Poets.
