Three Future Gifts

 

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Some day you'll make a painting for me
which will give itself shyly and ask,

"Am I all right?"

Green and golden deep inside,
it will sit on the couch, look around
at its new home and wonder if it is safe.
Together we will reassure it.
Together we will find the right frame
and the proper wall on which to hang it.

 

Soon you will make a meal for me,
tangy and mild,
formed by hours of thought
and a walk to the store.
Listening to it will make me restless―
I will want to know it's secrets.
But my task, you'll say, is to wait.

"Here. Slice these thin.

Arrange them on that platter.
Be ready for dinner’s smiling touch."

 

I wait for the day you make a storm for me,
something wet behind the wind.
Fishermen with sense will sense your force
and hurry their boats to harbor.
Small planes, unable to fly, will cling to tiedowns
and pilots will water their resentments with beer.
When it passes, we will sit on the beach,
one blanket over our shoulders,
and point out to each other
signs of your work