Another anniversary poem

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.