with apologies to Wallace Stevens
A woman is always suddenly in two worlds,
over the morning's breakfast plates
jammed up knives, amid soccer behind the hedge,
screaming, thuds, kicked leather.
The wind calls her to write: birds at the feeder startle when the big black dog runs out and her poems are suddenly startled, fleeing before she can grab paper and pen. The kids come in: one tries her flute, he opens the side gate to greet the barking lab.
We are many worlds wrapped up in this green space, the (good) Mom she tries to be while the Poet skulks back into the slow cooker left on simmer all day, closes the notepad and pads in socking feet back to the kitchen.