from Madrigal

Dawn Potter

My oven brings forth its brown

loaves; butter

glitters in the churn.

There is a home for goodness

in my heart.

Love feeds there,

like a bird, it scratches a nest of thorn

and feathers.

How quietly I wait for him

to come and lean against my ancient walls

and sing this song that you

also know so well.

[part 4 of "Madrigal," in How the Crimes Happened (CavanKerry Press, 2010)]