Spring 1958 • Vol. XX No. 2 Poetry |

Why We Loved Her

The violets back of the hedge Washed and cold, As blue as that because she was four years old; The turkey-red scallops carefully made Round her flannel petticoat; The sharp smell of onions at the vegetable man's, And his dishevelled goat That seemed to cry out in Italian too; The tireless friend that would pump on the backyard swing, And the copperhead that she killed, its head on a string For terrible trophy to her parents' eyes; The surprise Of all scattered loves, even a long lost dogComing together again, as out of a fog, As into a giant sunflower single-eyed Love, in the old brown house. That she was a whizz at geometry Peter had reason to see; There was something about that custard—what was it? Or lemon cake. Everybody can try them, as in fairy tales, But everybody fails. When she watched Emily, Saturday sunshine in her hair, Rolling marbles where she sat On the rug that was made at the foot of Mount Ararat, She remembered to pity Cowper secretly That he had only hares to p

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