The Air Pilot's Wife
       

By March we've had our share of rain.
What's the point ofliving in the South
if you can't count on the weather?
With Easter only a week away,
the azaleas have taken their cue,
and the rosebushes will soon be
a horseshoe of color. I still prefer
yellow ones, though neighbors exclaim
over the new-dawn pink.
Of course, I'll give them some.
Yesterday, a deer and her fawn
came to the edge of the back lot.
They were so attentive to each other,
they didn't notice me.
Their cinnamon bodies were soft
and sleek in the afternoon
sun filtering through the pines.
They are Roman pines, I've discovered.
For a moment, with the light streaming down,
I thought I was in a cathedral.
There was no place to look but up.
When the deer bounded off, it was without
a sound, without disturbing a single
needle or cone. And there are plenty.
I often think of doing something
with the land out back, cultivating it
or building a guest-house,
but it's more nature's than mine.
I like the furrowing moles.

The destructive squirrels and loudmouthed
jays are here. They have their homes,
their mates. They go about their business,
which gives me pleasure.
I have this feeling for the land
which you had for the air,
or perhaps you had a feeling for the land
but from a different perspective.
You saw it day after day
and by night from a great distance.
How small the earth was to you.
I see things close-up.
I would get down on my hands and knees
to glimpse the first hint of iris.
With March arrived, there's all this
quickening. Sometimes,
I just want to talk with you.

Tweet

Copyright © 2019 Gardner McFall All rights reserved
from On the Line
FinishingLine Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission