My Husband Holds Up a Pair of Mismatched Socks
I tell him not to worry, eventually they will match,
one day finding one another again,
eventually the wind will stop and we will
once again hear silence and what’s more
the fox is back and she’s alone.
The rooster has survived the winter—
Just listen to that crowing.
Your keys? Haven’t touched them,
but if you look in the top drawer,
of your father’s old bar they might be there.
This morning is about surrender,
a morning that lets the weeds take over,
look at those white clouds the size of Bowhead whales,
supplying at least half the oxygen you breathe,
so that you can continue to look for what is lost,
or buried, or you can choose to sit with me
and enjoy the dew lacing itself
over the lawn allowing the Dandelions
to burst into flower, feeding the bees,
which is when, I hope, you will forgive me,
for mixing the hardboiled eggs,
in the blue bowl, with the raw.
