" The Wife’s List "
He thought he was finished
with prophecy after the rain let up.
I knew better. Flowers floating,
clumps of trees, mountain peaks.
The sanding, the painting of wooden doors.
All this mess.
Animals humping. Cooped-up children.
Firewood to be cut and stacked. Linens
to be dried. Muddy shingles. My God,
cornfields, ruined scarecrows.
Slippery, mucky forests.
We stagger from our creaky ship.
Him, just ahead surveying
sodden gardens.
I start another list. Much to do
to set things right.
I shield my eyes from the morning sun.
A kaleidoscope of light. Dazzling
greens, oh the emerald greens of ruin.
I breathe. I breathe and stare.
Somehow, I miss the rain. The clear
pebbles of growth,
the beautiful confinement.
© 2004 Laurie Byro
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