NOT DONE YET
BY GINNY WIEHARDT
Dry eyes, how I wanted a rainy day.
We got sun instead, some clouds,
my heels sticking in the sod.
There was a notice in the wrong paper,
turf, but no tombstone.
I wasn’t pretty enough for the occasion.
I had nothing to say.
When the sky turns in on itself,
how much can we endure?
I wrong myself with what can’t be undone.
The pottery I’ve chipped, the yarn I’ve unfurled,
her matchstick arms, her faded dress.
With my life she could have lived forever.
Dew on our faces. Watercolor world
running away.
I could split my fingers on light.
The magician makes a balloon-animal virus
and we applaud.
Disappointments gather round:
I need a show of hands.
But it’s evening, time to go in
and gather stones for her arrival.
