Peacefully, In Her Sleep

Perhaps you’ve noticed these days of slow rain,
the corn quiet in the fields, half-grown, green,
waiting to stretch fat and tall in the sun
while grackles argue generalities
across from the old house, their broad statements
sweeping the length of the meadow when beaks
aren’t busy at the fine work of tatting
ivory doilies of Queen Anne’s Lace on
long summer afternoons. She spent winter
evenings beside the woodstove, tea in her
best blue-patterned china cup sweet and white,
growing cold, as she darned socks and mittens
dreaming of July. The stove’s gone, horsehair
plaster walls are stripped to laths. And rain falls.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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