Outside the high windows of what was once
our kitchen—before that, a weaver's room—now a study—
the breeze-bent lilacs continue to wave and sway;
the weeping willow grazes buffalo grass;
the copper roses blaze and extinguish,
blaze and extinguish and blaze . . .
but the peacock that appeared one afternoon
strutting up and down the back garden's brick path
hasn't been seen again, and was not—
unlike the five tawny owlets
perched for weeks on a beam of the kitchen portale—
digitally photographed, turned into a screen saver.
Almost everything's been put on automatic pay
but on some cloudless nights
I find my doormat's openwork rubber
enstarred with a cellophane sheen—
the moon's monthly bill,
still in your name.
Field Spring 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Carol Moldaw
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission