Am I allowed nostalgia when
I am only one-and-twenty?
Passing the fountain this morning
I was struck suddenly by the notion
that I should be filling buckets
with water from that deep,
leaf-littered pool.
Me as a farm girl,
turned farm woman,
sturdy but tired,
proud of my work
but grateful for your shoulder
at the end of the day.
That time is not here yet.
No fields need tending,
no animals to feed,
no mending or sewing or laundry.
No womanly tasks to lose myself in.
No kisses on the back of my neck
as I wash the dishes.
No long gazes across the room
as I snap green beans.
For now,
I have research essays
and the occasional hug.
I am patient to wait,
for these hugs hold weight,
"You are mine," they say,
"and I shall keep you thus."
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