Idyll Poem by Ken Craft

Each day brings the wedding closer,
clapboard and trim painters,
window washers, florists. I wish
I were a Breughel peasant far
away, under a sky pricked and paled
by August sun.

Scythes whistle. Sweat-soaked muslin
kisses our backs. Maidens
kerchiefed swing in rhythm, while a rick
wagon with wheat-strained ribs
waits in the background, swaddling its shade,

its corked wine jugs. Limbs splayed
with the sweetness
of fatigue, we'll open the wicker baskets
and find the airy white hearts
of crust-cased loaves with our thumbs.