XIII

for Seamus

There wasn’t one thing that sold us on the house back then,  
there was the spit of a yard, the reddish deck like a treehouse, 
the promise of city friends sleeping over & breakfasts.  
We set the table for two and cleared the yard for a garden.  
We weren’t nearly there yet: calculating the unexpected wait or due dates.  
The foxlike dog joined us soon enough and 
the chives became perennial. Thirteen springs of their onion scent, their purple plumes 
of garlicky flower sprinkled on supper. Thirteen thrills of each inaugural falling snow, 
the solstice sunset on the west facing patio.  

Next spring when we walk by,  
with others inside, we can say, 
I loved (you in) that house.  

ELIZABETH O'ROURKE

Elizabeth O’Rourke has been featured in On Being, Mom Egg Review, and Writing Fire. She received an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College and teaches poetry at the Mamaroneck (New York) Public Library. Her writing focuses on the sacredness and mysticism of her daily encounters with the world and what it asks of her.