Homeward Spun

The evening sky sits redly on my porch

I tell him it means to make time for delight

And only after the searching-try for the making

Do I find it in giggles in the ordinary littles

Like the dinner cabbage he cooked sweet

And the holding hands the way he linked

The kitchen and the sleep

The two rooms into one homeward spun web

To be the poem in my deep head

That makes love of nourishment

And nutrition of hands.