Poem for My Self

by Cornelia Rohde

If I could, I would give
you great elms
arching your road, fog
strips in the valley at
dawn,
tapped maple syrup to drop
in crisp snow drifts.

I would give
you golden oak
floors, a deep fireplace,
a black cat to comfort your lap,
or to curl near
bright buttercups
where windows
stretch to the floor.

I would give
you crocks of applebutter,
dinner plate peonies,
barrels of cider,
clumps of tart rhubarb,
bushes exploding with blueberries,
crisp currants, lush raspberries,
lawns buzzing
with clover, rows of bright corn.

I would give
you fields dipped in daisies,
pert black-eyed susans,
woods deep with violets
and trillium,
an owl with her young,
croaking frogs in a pond,
a collie’s ear to murmur your troubles.

I would call you
home
with the sawing of crickets,
the clear trill of the wren,
a hand rung brass farm bell.

Instead,
I give you the call of a muezzin,
the boom of a noon gun,
the deep moan of a foghorn,
the stone wall of a mountain,

all of it drenched
in the piquant scent
of Yesterday, Today,
and Tomorrow.

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