Dear Brother Casimir, who has always loved me most—
It may not have been officially written by a reporter
In the nuptials section of the Amsterdam Evening Recorder,
But I indeed attended your Catholic wedding and toast
As a shy valley lily next to a proud-headed k**arney rose
In your bride's white bouquet, stemmed in perfect order
Maidenhair fern and satin ribbon serving as my girdle
Trembling with her every step towards yoking you both
Our ironwood of a mother, a miracle in long blue crepe—
Back on the farm, she'd never be caught in such a sheath
It made me recall us all at dinner, high upon Wilde Hill
So tired after tending cattle we had to fight sleep to pray
To try to forget our hunger over the heady scent of yeast
And know gratitude as dinner bu*ter from the morning's milk