The Tansy Verses: The End

So, this is where we end, it seems.

Like waking from the pleasant dreams
We share whene’er we sleep together,
Now we rise to face the weather.

Terre Haute feels safe–you’ve found
Some comfort here on higher ground–
But rivers overflowing banks
To chart new courses thrill me.

Thanks

For wanting me, or even needing
What I have to give, but pleading
Cannot, will not change my mind

And though it hurts to leave behind
This blissful domesticity,
You don’t see what it is to me:
A strong, soft chain of woven wool
Restraining me against the pull
Of my potential, good or ill,
The Destiny I must fulfill
If I’m to learn to love myself.

I’ve left a space upon your shelf
In which to place the book I’ll write
Beginning eight days from tonight.

It’s dedicated to the friend
I made inside this book.

The End

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The Tansy Verses: No. 15

Tuesday’s child, so I’ve heard,
Is full of grace, so it’s absurd
To see you mope and hang your head
Like woeful Wednesday’s child instead.
You’re fair of face–a Monday trait–
But you were born a day too late
To earn that appellation. So
Is that how come you’re full of woe?
November 4th, when you were whelped,
Was Tuesday, so it can’t be helped:
The die is cast, so goodness gracious,
Reach down deep in your capacious
Pocket for a Brownie smile.
Let’s wipe out that frown awhile!
Sure, it’s Thursday, and I’m leaving
Friday next, but if you’re grieving
Starting now you’re going to get
Cheek wrinkles from eight days of wet.
Cheer up! You won’t regret you did:
You’re third from top of my stack, kid.