Housecoat

Stirring soup
in an iron pot,
thinking back on a
summer’s worth of youth
lost in wheat fields
and a wide
muddy river.

Watching out the window
as a family of cardinals
bickers in a
wind stripped maple.

Time and distance,
black and straight like the
highways that swallowed her son,
the old man
in the garage,
sanding down the stock
of a worn .30-.30,
knowing his legs
will never carry him now
to the mule deer.

December.
Their fourth year without
a tree.
Honey brown wooden
spoon,
circling,
barley and potatoes
bob and sink
and swirl.

Three bowls on the table,
more out of habit
than hope.

Still,
maybe he will smell it
simmer.
Maybe
he will come.