O I could weave my day of fragile things: geraniums on my sill, a kitten's purr and its soft fur against my flesh; a house-wren's twitting in a tree urging her mate to chivalry; the flame and death of embers on my hearth -- and their rebirth to flicker with the mirth of winds in the dark chimney hole -- these fragile things! But I would weave ruggedly Of tempest's spray ... Of cardinals, dark-plumed Against the gray -- Cold, dashing weather; Winds in relentless drive Above the heather! My warm cloak I would buckle high Against the gale ... The fabric of my day Must not be frail! |