SHE KNELT AT THE END OF THE BED
She knelt at the end of the bed,
framed by the dark grain around the window.
Her skin had turned bronze from days
and days harvesting the trellised
heirlooms and seeding flats by the row
of staghorn sumac and black walnut.
We’d pruned the tomato plant’s suckers,
tied the trellis string, sprayed copper,
and smiled at a bunting’s silver phrases.
We scrubbed the nightshade out of
our fingers’ pads and nails. Behind the blurry
curtain I see her greeting the shower
as it pours rivulets down the watershed
of her body, from the gap of her collarbone,
over her breasts and hips to her feet’s
estuary. She gazed through the glass
at the setting sun’s rays. They pierced
the three-lobed leaves of the red maple
in front of our porch. I can’t remember if I did,
but I hope I kissed her pale tailbone
and hauled her back to bed.