The Last Hour of Sleep

After letting the dog out and
standing for a few moments in the cold air and
wet grass under a fresh August sky
the pillow feels even more welcoming,
the sheets more like my own skin
as I crawl back in.
Dreams have run their course and so
the last hour of sleep is
truly void of consciousness.
Full of restfulness.
Acceptance of another day.

Perspective

When I saw them
white, many, light, lithe,
i called them
beautiful, bright, divine.

When I saw their eggs
black, uncountable, menacing,
I called them
unwanted, evil.

When I saw the leaves
eaten, lacey, holey,
I called you.

Beauty is fickle.
Vegetables are fragile.
We are in this life together.

Twenty-six

One man. One woman.
Three apartments. One townhouse. Two houses. All home.
One trip to England. One trip to Mexico.
Ten thousand miles on the turnpike.
Nine vehicles and innumberable oil changes.
Three washing machines, and just as many refrigerators.
Two sons. Immeasurable laughter. Several dozen sleepless nights.
One million kisses. Two million hugs.
Seventy thousand knowing smiles.

Twenty-six years, and
I'm still
counting on your love.

Imposter

It was an August day incognito.
I joined the charade and laid
prone
in the hammock my husband hung
in the heat of July.
Swung
with eyes closed
and the sun didn't even
warm my skin.
Sunk in to a dream of a different day.
The way the clouds blew across the sky
was a lie. It said, I am October.
The birds turned their heads
unwillingly,
prematurely to the South.

Presumption

Pardon, me, Mother,
I know I am asking too much.
You're tired. Worn out.
You have nourished us for months, and satisfied us
with all good things.
But I'm presuming now on your good graces.
Asking for more from your secret places.
The end of the summer has come.
I stroke you with my hoe.
Wound you with my spade.
And pray for a full fall harvest.

Ways She is Not Gone

How is she not gone? Let me count the ways.

Well. Perhaps tomorrow I will say
One. I see the flowers she planted twenty-five years ago just down the road.
Two. Her phone number still flies off my fingertips.
Three. Her picture is my desktop background.
Four. The friends she introduced me to still remember me.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight....

But tonight, I cannot get past zero.