This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

Seven Years

Jan 4 2006

After seven years

there is the gift of wool.

Lucky seven

a week of years;

more than enough to complete an act of creation,

and even consummate

a marriage.

Which seems appropriate

something cozy, hand-made;

though perhaps poly-cotton, wash-‘n-wear

would be more practical.

You see, the seven-year-itch is no accident.

Because after seven years

a man gets restless.

How many worlds he could have made

instead of beds?

Which is why falling in love is not enough.

Such high drama

and farce.

How you remember

the utter surrender

of falling in love with her.

Or was it more like out for a walk, lost in thought

and dropping down a man-hole, uncovered?

Because no one ever said

falling in like.

Which is where wool comes in

to this sensible domestic drama.

Because despite the odd dropped stitch

and that annoying itch

and the gifts you left

to the very last minute,

you’re now snugly committed

and content to stick to your knitting.

And because by now you know for certain

exactly which colour she’d pick.