Jane Merchant

We who love little objects rendered dear
By long association, have this much
That we can keep with us through the severe
Sharp hurt of leaving our own place.  The touch
Of a little Cutch girl pitcher that has held
Tulips of many springs and the smile upon
A tiny china gentleman’s face, that quelled
Quick tears, remain when larger things are gone.
If we must leave the sunny generous rooms,
The window with its wide familiar view,
And the garden’s sweet processional of blooms
And go where all is cramped and strangely new,
No change, as least, is great enough to sweep
Away small treasures—small enough to keep.

–From Because It’s Here (written in winter 1950)

My father hewed the walnut tree
That grew upon the land he tilled,
And of its wood he made for me
This table.  Now his hand is stilled
And others plow the uphill land
And reap its crops; but warm and good
I feel the strong touch of his hand
Upon this richly gleaming wood.

–From Halfway Up the Sky (written in winter 1950)