The sky is grey here today, in more ways than one,
and the raindrops that fall from the leaves remind me of yesterday,
when the wind blew all the buckets over and trapped the chickens
in tree branches and butterfly nets while they sang, as all chickens do.
I want to dry my dresses on drying racks in the greenhouse,
so when I go home, I smell like Maine forever,
and I’ll somehow preserve the wildflowers- perhaps in a mason jar,
with pectin and vinegar- so that I can carry them down the aisle,
when I get married - whenever that may be.
Soon, soon, he says. But not soon enough, I say.
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