Biding Her Time

She stalls amid the standing timber and restrains one hand in the other, still. Now faraway, the sunset hums on every side of the hoppers and the hills. She notices, idly, her son-in-law surrender to check the posted gate before the smoke begins to soften air, and June bugs try the open door. And through the windows, washing hands, her daughter has the bedstead made, her blue jeans felt for colored stones, the joyance of midday suspended: For she was caught and held for hours by the geese gliding the barn-door skate, over a pond with parted veils of seven sisters who gazed for rabbit holes beyond. But now her gown lies on a bed, she sees the undressed shadows creep through a half-illuminated memory where chase charms a rabbit to sleep. She too must answer appeals now, and play the chimes inside her brain when whistles from her daughter blow; yet, for a while, she would remain, and dally her feet in damp meadow grass, and lean against a submissive sugar cane, and spread her name in dew across the stones where the droplets walk. Yes indeed, her mind is clear enough to hear her name among the standing timber. She must remember home and love and frocks that swung below her knees. But why must she leave behind the shade and sleep between the walls all night? Why must a solitary girl scurry mad to gain this one simple, pure delight of staying, when the others leave, to write her name or hold a colored stone, or hear the whip-a-wills birdcall their love? Written February 27th, 2000 © on Feb 27 2002 09:24 AM PST   0 • 12