Sonnet 570

For you alone make this grey house a home:
You are the sconce above the table fare
Which cradles light that so dispels all gloom
And softly accents loving fruit laid there.
You are the frill frond curtains of delight
That welcomes sunshine ‘cross the window’s sill
To fill drab rooms with cheerful dappled light
Which then upon swept spotless floors does spill.
The hearthstones warm still from the homespun fire
Where riddled coals bespeak their hearty praise;
The smell of fresh baked bread upon the air
And gentle laughter sung to souls upraise.
A god spun woman bright and fancy free:
The sterling best of female liberty.

© Loubert S. Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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