Willard

Willard.
Willard was his name.
Not William.
Not Willy,
Nor Will or Bill,
But Willard.

Willard stood 6ft tall,
Maybe more but
I never had a
Measuring tape around
When he came by
The farmhouse that
Pa built.

In those times,
They called it courting,
I called it sniffing around,
But Ma and Pa liked it
As every time Willard came by
He would bring news
For Ma's ear or
An extra hand for Pa.

As for me, he would
Bring wild flowers.
A whole mess of them,
Ma would have me smile
And put them in a pretty
Vase bought specially for them.

I didn't like Willard,
But I didn't hate him
Either. He was like
A stranger you saw
Often enough that
You end up liking them.

First, I like the way
He laughed nervously when
I told a blue joke.
Then the way his sandy hair
Would catch the last rays
Of summer sun.

I liked the freckles
That came out in May
And said goodbye
When the harvest moon
Said hello.

I liked his smile,
Not the nervous one,
Or the polite one,
I liked the one that
Was full of mischievous
That mirrored mine at times.

Or the one that
Could only be described
As proud when I told
Mary Sue, that little know it all,
Where to put her
Pretty, little nose.

When a summer turned
Into a year and
A year into two,
When puberty brought
New surprises and emotions,
Willard was there.

When Pa got sick
And Ma became Ma,
Pa and Pa's nurse,
Leaving me to fend for myself,
Willard was there.

Then Willard was gone
For a spell or two
And I felt a sadness
I never knew could exist
Leaving me listless and cagey.

Then he came back and
I swear, though Ma said
Not to, it was like
The sun came out from
Behind the clouds.

When he came back,
He took me down by
The river where the big
Oak tree stands
And out of his pocket
Came a ring.

I said yes before
He could ask the question.
Yes, I love him,
Yes, I will marry him,
Yes, I will live with him
In sunshine and rain.

Willard is his name.
Not William,
Not Willy,
Not Will or Bill
But Willard,
The man I love.


Submitted to Poets United's Poetry Pantry