In Four

 ^

I am flat.

On a shelf.

Flat.

I can't turn 'round my brain.

My daughter, the photographer, is leaving her husband.

I feel out of kilter.

She, the sticker.

I, the leaver.

Her leaving is not about me.

She has asked me to help her.

To help her by living upstairs in the city house.

Her leaving is not about me.

To help her by living with her,

I will leave the land of the farmer,

the sanity house by the creek,

and the farmer's odd pace

nearby.

A pace I've watched

and  understood

in recognizing we who are not lovers.

I will leave the sanity house by the creek. 

But her leaving is not about me.

 The farmer, still by the porch,

will barely see

the wave

as I round the bend

in blend with the muscadines

on the edge of the road.

 ^

Four months back

 or so he said tonight,

I met the artist.

I was seeking a gift for my son's bride.

Instead the gift sought me.

Today he wrote Color Trees

and placed it in my box.

Later we dined on clam chowder,

and I told him to stick it out the window.

I'm no booty call.

He laughed and his fat cat climbed up

on the top ledge.

His Nikon caught the shot

which I may edit and update

into this verse.

If first I

find my blouse.

^

The year is closing.

The babe was in.

and now is out.

The young mother unsure.

A sister near. 

A welcome, a tear.

-- 

And this September march. 

Two little girls.

My son's,

my other daughter's,

splashing in the rain-

wedding wet

flowergirls.

Timing down pat.

 Scupper ©2009

 rev./5/2010