The hill that slants through half the window
like a schism holds my soul beside.
Lowly needle shrubs cling to fallow fields
while wisps of clouds faint and white above
hold hope of other more forgiving worlds.
“This Saturday will be six months
since my husband passed away.
You’ll come…I’ll make memorial wheat and
you’ll see my son that you’ve not seen
since you went to school together.”
Houses of stone built long ago by hand
Lean towards earth from where they came;
roofs have tumbled through gaping holes
setting loose the souls and lives held near
by daughters that learned their lessons well.
Here wine was raised once to toast life-posts
where beams and tiles in jagged piles lie.
She’s kept her home, a garden, a few hens,
the flagstones whitewashed—her ten yards round—
as she has done for seven decades now.
But today the amaranths are brown with thirst
for twisted in the bath prone she lies
who for a month programmatized
with memory wheat to eulogize
and bring together bits of lives gone by.
A few cicadas call…but many less I think;
lone neighbors crack their doors and venture out
to take part in the ritual they all await.
A light breeze flutters over hills and town
and as always, the sky is blue.
