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Poem

He's a wonder maker-
grapes and figs
and fistfuls of rosemary sprigs
given to guests in a still stormy sky
A welder to solder a sculpture on Sunday
done and attached in a blink of an eye
He'll make you the perfect stiff black cup of coffee
and slave over round perfect pancakes in morning
A master of truth, even when it is painful
-a trait quite remarkably just like her father-
He knows an old camera like a black and white friend
and teaches her fingers to these images rend
To climb every boulder, he'll search out the woods
a grindstone to shoulders, a zesting for life.
He'll ask you the books that you've read in a while
He'll serious talk you, then break like a smile.
All in the ease of a Sunday.
She's a wonder maker-
tetris and tea
'till the night smacks the dawn, into her, into me
with an eagerness which supercedes even sleep
She's long and lean in a match to the Dobermans
off on her way to the dog park to play
But then she's in flames with the hair on her head,
vintage scarf, quite Pucci, on a brilliant Sunday
She's ready to jet set to London or Paris
She'll work like a tiger to brittle your shell
a thousand odd pieces she'll help you pick up
and you'll let her, just for the fact that she knows you so well.
Each song that she hears, that she loves, becomes hers
and she won't let you rest 'till you turn to agree
She twirls him in kitchens and takes him 'round dancing
to the tune in her head, to her own melody.
All in the ease of a Sunday.

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