The carpenter—he loved the preacher’s oldest girl,
And watched her with all-quiet eyes from woody-smelling
Pews he’d built. “His jacket’s dipped in dust of yellowing
Pines,” she said. He wooed her, carrying wreaths of pearl-
Pink blooms and baskets of sheep’s sharpest cheese—his land’s.
She loved the dirt-blacked nails on Bible-carrying hands.
—
They sat by river’s side the day she wore his ring.
He said, “Your eyes like gentle doves; your throat like tow’r
Of David, love; your mouth a crimson-threaded flower;
You, a garden—mine.” She said, “Like gold, my king,
Your hands. Your eyes, they’re milk-washed; your prayers—they bend
My heart. Seal me on your arm, O shepherd, friend.”