Tuesday, January 29, 2013
The house is half re-built
as she dries her garments along the portico
preferring the sun's flame to the hearth.
Her cambric gown hangs at the end.
Its lacings untied, the intimate scent
of last night flown. Whatever shadow
the glass and pewter caught
flirting in that white dress --
has diminished to a wife
sorting through her wash.
Boxwood leaves glisten
in the garden light ---
sprig upon sprig
of card- playing spades.
She looks toward the hedge
and knows temptation
will come back, stepping
over the doorsill, draping
the home with glare
only to be blocked
slightly (as she found this morning)
by a robin on the porch. Fallen.
Some of his silk down
clinging to the laundered cloth.