Woman,

    I desire;

To build you a brick house

with wide wooden steps

coming up from the lawn;

To lean a broom on the front porch,

and with you wait while we let friends,

like leaves,

gather.

We'll bunch them around bonfires

on crisp autumn nights,

and the sounds of our stories and songs

will rise and scatter like fireflies.

And below the hymns of shooting stars,

our little ones will gently run about,

before falling asleep in our arms.

Woman,

    I desire;

To wake by your side

with windows open wide

on dewy mornings of robin blue-egg sky;

to see your eyes softly glowing like coals

as we waltz into our kitchen white and bright with sun;

To call our children down with laughter,

and to feel their pant-leg tuggings

as we flip the flapjacks and skim off the cream;

to have the table set happily, messily,

by the youngest three;

To repair busted bikes and kiss bruised knees,

and all together count goslings in the spring;

to play hop-scotch on the sidewalk and “catch” down the street.

Woman,

    I desire;

To build you a red brick house,

lasting for many generations to pass on;

to build a heritage of stories and songs;

and to engrave our names on the pillars

    of many beating hearts.