Margie
in the Garden
The chair
saves her
from slumping.
Blue Slats
tilt her backwards
straight and graceful
toward the afternoon sun.
Wind strokes
her hands gently
as they grip
the Adirondack wood
pushing hard into silence.
Her skin
quivers
like the speckled breast
of a mourning dove.
She feels
cornered by time,
trapped in a nest
of thinning hair and bone.
The august
breeze
continues to pat her warmly.
Reassured,
eyes close
and thoughts flower
from lids rounded
and planted
deep
under shadows of the elm tree.
Fingers
spread into feathers
and age lands
on a girl shelling peas
rolling their green marbles between her teeth
as she
wonders
about the special guest
coming for supper.
Copyright © 2001 Wendy Howe
