Ahh, the wind, this day, glorious-glorious…
There are her gloves, pink-spotted, green-trimmed.
and lift…
A kitten in the sun, she wears heels to
the garden.
and tap…
A pack of marigolds waiting to
root into rows made by
anxious knuckles.
and lift…
There is her basket, woven, as she pretends, by
backyard gnomes during late-night play.
and tap…
a spade, a trowel, and muddy knees
Tap, tap, tap…
She is a painted lady, hidden carefully
behind heavy lashes and a headscarf of
pale blue polyester chiffon.
now, dig…and dig…and dig…
Polite doesn’t cut it when the bodies
are dying to be covered.
deeper, faster, deeper, faster…pause…
Oh, not the shadows, not again.
Are they coming, the circus animals, are
they coming out to play?
her gloves…she adjusts.
and stretch and flex, stretch and flex…
the marigolds…tap, tap, tap…
she stands up and her skirt…
Her skirt is a veil meant to
cover broken flowers, but soon,
the rain will come down anyway.
under the tree…under the tree,
she waits, she listens, she frowns at
the ugliness of dirt caked
fingernails, ankles, and brow…
It is as if she, a lady, wears the
evidence of wallowing instead of
a perching selectively
on this glorious, glorious day.