thelibraryrooms

This is the earth, my son
This is the earth, which we will turn
This is the earth, which we will turn
and we shall fill, my son

This is the horse, my son
This is the horse that shall lead the plough
This is the horse that shall lead the plough,
which will turn the earth that we shall fill, my son

These are the seeds, my son
These are the seeds, which we will sow
These are the seeds, which we will sow
into the earth that the plough shall turn, my son

This is the spade, my son
This is the spade with which we shall turn the earth
This is the spade with which we shall turn the earth
to scatter the weeds that will grow my son

Here is the spade
Here are the seeds
Here is the plough
Where are you my son?

You turn them over again, twist them to fit
However you place them they are uncomfortable, don’t sit
Right in the sentence that you are trying to form
You are frustrated, build frowns from your smile, let anger storm

When you read back the already written line
You grow more annoyed, irritated by the lack of fine
Detail, a lack of precision, a complete loss of style
You know what you want to say, but miss by a mile

She will wake with one aim
Last night she ran out of time
Presents wrapped, some cards written

She will wake at 5 am
With a single mission
Instructions somewhere, something to decipher

She will approach with trepidation
Recall that last year, she rushed
Made a mess of things

She will decide: no haste
I will be late if required
Start the process, read the lines

She will wait until the problem
Resolves itself or fails to resolve
Whatever happens she will wait

When they were young, her brother taught her chess
She loved the liquid moves of hand and eye
She mastered castling and complex movements

He should, perhaps, have taught her other things
The tricks that men would later play on her
The rules of other games that puzzled

But instead he kept her lost in childhood
Enthralled by figures on a checkered board
Wise to strategy, not to emotion

So when she came to adulthood: eighteen,
And found herself elsewhere, partnerless, alone
She knew nothing of the rules to play by

Her chances were not great, no kings nor queens
For her to follow, no knights to protect
A single figure on a game board, the pawn

the anemones push
up through the earth to the sun,
as you turn to leave