The Table's Set
Barbara A Taylor
 

It is Saturday night. Snowflakes settle on the wagon wheel in the garden. I am waiting; tired and weary, pacing far too long, wondering if she will come. And when? I stopped my writing early to prepare her favorite dish, an extra hot curry. I even baked an apple tart. The table's set; two empty goblets sparkle. I've used our stiff linen napkins with stitched shamrocks. Lighting's subdued; music eclectic, soft. I dare not think I am a crone they write about—raggle-wise, wizened, clichéd in purple, biding time writing words to lost lovers. I am alone it's true, but with all the time I want, here in my own peaceful space. Romantic notions are gone, except for one. These days she does not see me hobble along our garden paths, stop to pick snowdrops for her crystal vase. She can't know I need spectacles now and I can't decipher rat-shit from the green tea leaves scattered across my kitchen cedar bench. Aches. Sweats. Passion.

the cuckoo clock
repeating itself
time and time again

Barbara Taylor lives in northern NSW, Australia. Her poems appear in journals and anthologies including Landfall, Atlas Poetica, Crickets and Chrysanthemums, Lynx, Presence, Sketchbook, Haibun Today, Ribbons, Frogpond, Wisteria, Red Lights, 3lightsgallery, Shamrock, Simply Haiku, CHO, Kokako, Moonset, Eucalypt, and elsewhere.

Poetry with audio is online at http://batsword.tripod.com

Copyright 2009: Simply Haiku