Guilty in Every Way

by Sarah J. Martin

Who cares about dishes? Spaghetti-stained platters
And milk-silvered tumblers and each licked-off spoon?
I’ve daisies to gather and clouds to interpret
And forests to wander—and all before noon.

Oh, don’t speak of laundry, that limp stuff and smelly
That grows in the corners and sprawls on the bed!
I’m busy with fanciful stories and daydreams—
Significant kingdoms that thrive in my head.

And cooking? Such hideous peeling and chopping
And basting and boiling—please let me go free.
I plan to flee, barefoot, with books for companions,
To laze in my hammock out under that tree.

In terms of importance, what purpose is cleaning?
My decor is “country,” its accent is dust.
I’ve business with swings and with warm, sandy beaches;
Don’t tell me I’m slacking—that cannot be just.

I know I don’t follow the forms of convention
In terms of dividing my work and my play.
Priorities lack; and I freely admit it—
I’m practically guilty in every way.

Sarah lives in the rocks and trees of cottage country, where she loves family, words, old books and buildings, and light in all its forms.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy