by olga kronmeyer
They moved in to a small drab house.
Her ponytail hung loose.
He limped around a shaky ladder
And they brought her old mother.
They trod into a steepled house.
Its stained rays pressed their clothes.
Their songs battered the angels
And once they brought her mother.
They hoped as storms tore up their house.
He limped up his strong ladder.
She held boards against the roof.
And her old mother whistled.
The shabby house spread out three rooms.
He patched and patched the roof.
She washed two new picture windows
And a dog watched the old mother.
They moved in and out the great church.
She cooked the Christmas stuffing.
His knife carved his pocket. They left
For good with the whistling mother.