Maggie Mae is buried – there
just beyond my kitchen window
under the summer canopy
of ancient apple trees
Appropriate don’t you think?
Her round head, round eyes
framed in apples,
her greeting a dizzying
round go round.
Today the wind picked up
and a dozen apples fell
one split in two revealing
A chambered heart--necessary dark seeds.
At dusk deer will tiptoe hushed
into the palpable shadows
and I will hear her bark bark
at their trespass, will see her run
run again, run wily and whole
first into the tall grasses
before the sweet turning back
toward the light of home.
