From our porch we watched the storm come—
The porch we built of oak planking
And tin—and listened for the thunder

And to each other, speaking of all
The things we mean to do, leaning
On our youth and the half-built wall.

This fall, a kitchen, and next year,
We'll raise rabbits—no end to planning,
Is there? It puts off the old fear—

What's the use. Even white oak rots.
Your hair is already greying,
We both become what we were not—

Tired. But in that night's rain and heat
We spoke together, making
Ourselves and these things complete
Each other in light not yet forsaken.

  (published in The Louiville Review)