Paroles

When I was young I used to write, and so I shall again,—
(But I must start the fire at once for dinner for the men.)

I’ll write about last night: the clouds were billowing up the sky
(I cannot get the oven hot enough to bake this pie.)

The moon was like a wistful bride, so tender and so true,—
(These biscuits will be just the things to serve with chicken stew.)
As through the aisle of clouds she went, her veil a floating mist—
(Barbed wire, Joe? Don’t cry, my boy; I’ll iodine your wrist.)

Where was I?—When I wash these towels and mix that batch of dough,
And wash the dinner dishes, sweep, mop, and when I hoe
The garden, churn the butter, bake a cake, and when I sew
These sugar sacks into a dress, and make that shirt for Joe,
And iron these clothes, and make some jam, and help the men to mow,—
And when I’ve staked tomato plants so that the wind can’t blow
Them over,—then, if it isn’t time to cook again, I’ll go
…………….And write that poem.

(Annie Pike Greenwood)