Woman in a Meadow

Her balm the in-between, 

The interstitials

And somewhere out in the 

Great Plains and the divide, 

Great opening spaces, in

The small meadows she created

I find her

All the Light I Cannot See

Spent all day in the big outside

Mowing into the glory of the clover

Fretting about apple trees’ vigor,

Though they’re old, 

Making sure in my reveries

I kept respectful distance from the 

Pond’s banks 

No tilting in too far, and 

Surprise of 

Wiping tears away

Weeping 

For the kindness, the 

Constancy, and 

Understanding; 

I had to shade my eyes now and then

From a lowering sun, the 

Chords of knowing blinding

Into the precious new again, that 

Some things never change. 

Coming in

To cook up all that

Emotional

Psychic

Visceral

Logical 

Incoming,

I turn to dinner 

Yesterday my friend gave me a bounty of 

Butternut squash soup, 

She said, he doesn’t like it 

And if I had to guess 

I bet it comes from 

The church ladies; an 

Excellent base 

And then the riot:

Mine here, in no order—

Two evenings’ soups

Beets and pesto 

Cream, some honey and 

Black beans

Paprika, and some cheese

And snips of basil, parsleys from

my kitchen garden, 

My way of finding 

Balance