One of the hardships of being married to a poet, is the gifts are pretty
predictable... every year: a poem. Thirty years --no diamonds, no jewels, only lots and lots of words... This one written somewhere around year 15 or 16 (I think).
After the Halloween party
Quietly washing the dishes while the children play;
their laughter, whispers, the soft fade to silence--
all—music, music at the end of a long day
of plans changing, costumes changing, ideas –a dance
of opportunities and unimaginable dreams.
Could we? Maybe? How many? Is there a chance?
And as the last guest leaves, door closing, it seems,
standing at the sink, drying a glass that won’t fit
atop the drainer, piled high, it seems all their schemes
have come to this: a hand held out, “Mother, come sit.”
and a place made on the couch between three pearls
of such great price (a witch, a cat, a fairy); this is her
life,
here! This is it.
She puts down the glass and goes to her girls
who gather toward grace, as blossoms to the sun,
drawing a quilt across gathered knees –and sigh--
the
day’s work –Oh yes! It is done.
