A Song of Home



Were I to make a poem of a day
Of housework, I’d not write of dust and brooms
So much as of the sun in spotless rooms,
Of bowls of freshly cut sweetpeas—I’d say
Less of vegetables and kinds of bread,
Of endless dishes washed and scraped and dried,
And more of children’s hunger satisfied—
I’d tell of warm soft lips on mine instead.

O more than ceaseless duties I would sing
Of happy hearts and of contentment, of
Ambitious dreams—yes, more than anything
I’d tally every blessing, wherein love
Is greatest of them all: is the leaven
Exalting toil, turning home to Heaven.


poem by Ethel Romig Fuller
from Kitchen Sonnets

Thank you, Carmon, for pointing me to Oregon’s third poet laureate.


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