in ourhouse there will be but love:

in ourhouse there will be but love:
pale small fingers pluck strings
and press upon keys while above
the stairs we write grateful things;

our bed remains crisply made
until after the other beds are full-
our books rest beside our shades
as within our sheets we push and pull;

through the window the sun looks
our eyes, we awake and awake the small
to another day full of strings and books
as we take the day and kiss it all.

now in ourhouse we kiss the floors and beams
until our house is built outside our dreams