Out the dining room window

he sees the overturned tricycle,

an abandoned Frisbee

littering brown grass

In the season between

summer and winter,

leaves gone,

chain link fences show


Though she sets the table

as she always has,

the aura of the barefoot woman

in strapless white dress,

breast tops pale as tulips,

yet haunts the backyard

of the afternoon of perfect light

where she stood amazed

at what she had planted:

the blooms of lilacs, azaleas, pom poms,

the two week flowering of spirea,

perennials, annuals, begonias, what-nots


She’s fries pork chops in blue jeans now,

her autumn sweatshirt two sizes too big,

the same but not the same


In the i-n-g season, the sights

of flower beds, spreader bushes,

are now lost in her private song

and to the longing of late cicadas

reaching back, reaching back