For a good forty years
she listened—
to the squeak of rusty hinges, then
the swinging shut of the screen door.

One April afternoon, she watched him,
making his way to the pasture,
chewing on a blade of buffalo grass;
his purpled hand, in parchment-thin skin,
grasping one strap of his overalls.

Behind blinding white sheets
flapping lazily on the line,
he stood—waiting,
letting the sun quarrel with shadows,
until it laid down hot across his face.

Squinting into the sun,
the scene appeared to her as if in reverse,
like the negative of a photograph—
his stooped pale form in the black pasture,
the almost imperceptible silhouette of the mare,
trotting, in sheer joy, towards him.

The two shuffled along the narrow road,
little dust storms bathing their feet in grit.
Nearing a stand of timothy, he stopped.
The mare whinnied, bowing her head,
her nose nuzzling his hand, then his face.

At sunset, she found the mare,
contentedly grazing near where he lay.
In the days cut short by winter
and in their growing longer,
he had gone quietly about the business of dying.

Only later, and for years
amplified by pain, did she listen—
it was the sound of Spring,
holding its breath.


© 2008 by Deborah Kuder. All rights reserved.