Poem - The Cottage

I’d like to live in a stone cottage some day,
And keep house like a maiden aunt:
There’d be lots of arches and corner niches:
And in every window, a plant.

My garden would grow right up to the stoop,
With paths going nowhere at all:
And a bench, and a pond, and a bath for birds,
And creatures great, and small.

Inside would be paintings of ships in storms,
And a rowboat with oars, at the shore:
And a gray cat would curl in front of the hearth
And a tabby tom crouched 'neath a chair.

My floors I would cover with rugs I had hooked,
My tables embroider with lace,
And beeswax and candles and tins of tea
Would be ever so nice in this place.

My bed would stand high, way high off the floor;
It’s the kind that I’ve always wanted:
And when I’d lie there I’d look up at the stars
Out a window strategically slanted.

On its shelf each sheet would be folded neat
With lavender tucked inside,
And pillowslips starched and pressed and stashed
And tea towels stacked beside.

In my larder you’d see e’er so bounteous a lot:
I would stock it with wonderful things:
With crackers and noodles and Parmesan cheese
And tomatoes and sausage rings,

And a crock for cookies and one for butter
And a basket of bagels and biscuits
To say nothing of pickles and apples and herbs:
There’s really too much there to mention.

One thing though that I’d like you to know,
When writing of cottage perfection,
That first must come prayer, possessions behind -
When finding one’s true satisfaction.

So I’ll pray for you and you pray for me,
For foes and the wide world outside,
For people beyond mere stone cottage walls. . .

-and if they all show up at my door I shall invite them right on in!