poem

 Oracle

There were pies hanging 

From the apple trees

And cookies swaying 

In the wheatfields.

I'm always seeing things

Two or three steps ahead.

There was a ring on your finger

When you were a little girl.

The first time we made love

Our child was telling us

To please keep it down.

And now I see the face

Of a tired old man

Tiptoeing around the edges

Of a hole in the ground. 

The house has gone silent

With everyone gone.

The boy in the backyard

Is now on his way to the cemetery 

With his pretty young wife and baby son

With flowers to be laid 

At the foot of the stone

Marking the spot

I have always known.

9/14/25