Watching Susan heave her hips in pain,
feeling the tension cramp my racing heart –
I would rather be
pulling oak stumps
out of the hard earth
of my fresh cleared field
in the searing heat of day.
But how can I disguise myself
as a farmer
in an hour
when my ears hum with hopeful joy
and my bones creak in fear for my Susan?
So I stay and watch,
then turn away,
and I whistle out of fright
at the power
that forces new life, full-formed,
out of the frail and pale-faced girl.
The Brink at Logan Pond. Lulu Press. 2005.
Magnapoets June 2006.