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Approaching summer, my wife wants to call a truce between her and the pine cones. Between her and the battalion of weeds. If you know Wendy, I don’t have to tell you, she’s not easily discouraged. One summer she rose every day before dawn and stood with her arms outstretched, catching as many of them as she could. The ones she missed she raked, until her rake lost its teeth. As far as the weeds went, some of them were afraid to rise. Having heard how determined she is with her hands. How she loves feeling her knees in the dirt. At this point in our lives it’s not unusual for one of us to ask what we’ve been thinking of God. You mean the earth under my nails she’s said more than once. No, I mean the war inside the mind, where God lives. And Frost, who wrote “Today shall be the day of what we both said”. Trying to end the argument between him and his wife, as to which way West Running Brook runs. A truce for the marrying kind he might say. I would like to offer to Wendy. So, one morning in August, she can walk away from her fury of pines, and catch her breath. Can look over to me, standing under the shield of the maple tree.
Copyright 2020 Gary Margolis
Gary Margolis is a poet, teacher, and psychologist who lives in Vermont. His fifth collection Museum of Islands: New and Selected Poems was published by Bauhan Publishing.