Holidays

Your boyish question stirs
in my mind like the Atlantic 
on a December night, you
won't wait and I won't stay,

on Christmas morning I see
our green-eyed prodigy, 
I wake up wrapped in
flannel sheets, 

we are purest bliss

walk the farmlands,
fingers on the fences,
you make the money and

I'll raise the children,
four or five or ten.