Triangles of Glass ~~ anna hood

The crows are in place wrapped still
in night. She glides past
her eyelet nightie soft as old lady’s
cheeks, her pink chenille robe
the hem dripping dew
swishes the grass like a tongue,
her bare feet treading chamomile
into tea.

He’s waiting in a barn full of ghosts
rusting forgotten implements,
triangles of glass cobwebbed and smeared
with age, the air fanned by silent wings
of an owl who nests in the loft.
She pauses
in the doorway, her nose filling
with the scent of shampoo,
laundry soap
him. He’s young enough
to be her son, his faded jeans
bleached nearly white, both knees
torn.
Unbuttoned.

In the hay he makes a bed
of chenille, drapes
her nightie on a cross
post and spreads himself
like a feast. She kneels
in the rising sun in streamers
of dawn.

The crows have left.
At the top of the stairs
her man still sleeps
gathering energy
for another day.