A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
My love, we will survive this winter cold
In spite of icy winds that huff and scold.
We have a stack of wood to feed the fire,
Some whiskey if we need a fortifier,
And yes, a reputation to uphold.
The caring neighbors know we’re ill and old
And think perhaps our farm will soon be sold,
But no, we two will do what we desire:
My love, we will!
The children have advised, nay, urged, cajoled
That we stop working on this farm and fold
Our tents to move to town. They’ve found a buyer
For these two hundred acres and conspire
Against us, but we will not be controlled,
My love, we won’t.
Don Thackrey lives in Dexter, Michigan, where he is retired from the University of Michigan and is spending time studying formal verse. He likes to repeat himself in both prose and verse.