I’ve made your favorite tea
and I’ve cups and plates laid out on the veranda.
Bootskuffles on old wood floor, farmhouse
hushed by the midday breeze.
The curtains shift from side to side.
That window could use a good washing.
Later, I’ll grab the bucket from the shed.

I ease the cake, steam so sweet,
from the oven using hotpads made by your crochet circle.
I look out where I had hoped to see you arrive
and the rye is sighing in long waves
as trails of dust rise from the winding drive.

The apricot bundt cake would be better warm,
sliced, with a doily on a pretty plate,
pat of butter slipping down the crusted edge,
but will make a fine lunch tomorrow
when I’m out in the dirt
pulling grubs from the cucumber bed.
Today I’m still as a scarecrow,
stuffed shoulders sagged
under the weight of being,
watching tea steam trail away.