by Marilyn Hacker
from Love, Death and the Changing of the Seasons
It's almost as if we're already there,
in the narrow stone house, me upstairs
writing at the splintery pine table,
you in the downstairs study, with its cradle
of a marriage bed, slit window looking
into the Buniols' herb garden. I'm cooking
a sonnet sequence and a cassoulet
with goose from Carcassonne, let mijoter
on the burner till nightfall. The vow
of silence breaks at seven. It's noon now.
Pleasure delayed is pleasure amplified
-- I'll show you these bitch Welsh quatrains I've tried.
It's your turn to work outdoors in the sun
on the roof -- your footsteps, and the last line's done.