In a flannel nightgown, an hour after sunset,
she seems farm wife or owner, fraught,
as she bends by kerosene light
over bills on a scratched wood table,
A white cockatoo on her shoulder nips for attention.
and as she lifts him a treat,
her face briefly lights
before it sinks into shadows and she whispers,
“I can’t believe this costs so much….”
As she hovers, her brow furrows,
scribbling checks
for a place, perhaps drought-ridden,
plagued by locusts
or threatened by foreclosure.
The wind whistles, then slows, obedient as a spaniel,
but sudden as a door slam,
she runs out to the moon,
a silver platter
set on black velvet.
sprinkled with rhinestones
shimmering along the grey barn
as she twirls and prances.
“Not many get to see this,” she cries
of the mist wrapping black fences,
smell of soil and cows,
mingled with iris silvered by moonlight,
and the faint chill that hints of graves.
Now she is Diana with frizzy hair and darting black eyes,
a rectangle in blue plaid
hem dusting the spring mud
that will crust over souvenirs.
Her quiver holds gloves for eggs
gathered at dawn scrambled at noon.
Melding with the moon,
she is that wind scattering the bills
that float to those hounds snoozing by the wood stove,
their soft snores serene as her bird’s head
folded under his wing
Mary Bruce is a partially blind retired college professor and current writer. She is well traveled, visiting 26 countries and teaching in four. Despite her low vision, she has turned out a novel, memoir and poetry collection., basically because she can’t shut up!
