569: Medford

We slept on couches downstairs, up until

the mission president’s wife heard of it.

The beds upstairs thence used could never fill

the gap the couches had cozily fit.

That dear old drab apartment–but I lie–

the window to the cherry trees protests.

Drab only to one half as blind as I,

who couldn’t see the blossoms and bird nests.

We ate upon the balcony, whose perch

was o’er the river running by our door,

and walked upon the path beside our church

whose verdancy could soothe your every sore.

Dear Drab Medford Apartment, I will vouch

for garden paths, your river, trees, and couch.