I wrote this on an impulse back when I was in Saskatchewan, when in the middle of a quiet afternoon I drank a glass of fresh buttermilk, left over from an experiment the day before. I composed the verses, and then, highly excited, bumbled down the stairs like a hurricane to grab a piece of paper from my bedroom to write it down on. Poor Aileen didn't know what was up, and I was too much in a hurry to tell her!
Buttermilk
By Celeste Lawrenson
Locked inside the silky cream
Coax her to show herself.
Sleeping, having a sweet dream
Quiet, untouched by theft or stealth.
Wisdom, and a gentle hand,
Patience is required;
To make her bend to your demand,
And show the form desired.
Hand in hand with butter sits,
Friendly and free of care,
Each nature with the other fits
The shape and purpose they both share.
How timid they must feel
To show themselves alone!
To be naked and revealed,
Removed from friend and home.
The butter is the part we're wanting,
But the rest has tales to tell.
Pale, sweet, demure and taunting,
She will speak if you listen well.
Tales of silver and gold,
Of pearls and stormy seas,
Tales that never are told,
Of insults and gifts and cheese.
She has seen things you have not,
Been places you'd like to go.
She can be traded for what can't be bought,
And given for things you should know.
Drink her and she will nourish,
Share her and she will bless.
She'll change you and make you flourish,
-It's better than making a mess.
I don't claim to be a poet.
