My wife’s a cornucopia—
Spilling science, squash, ceramics—
My home’s a near utopia,
Fashioned by her daemon: manic.
She turns and builds and paints and fires—
She grandly grows both flowers and veg—
Recycles, composts, rules, desires—
By god, she’s even baking bread.
Mostly she smiles and jitterbugs,
Though sometimes fate deals her chagrin—
Never morose, she sometimes shrugs—
Her Yang well-balanced by her Yin.
(2/16/10)