–for Lindsay

Years pass—
expectation dims
hopes vanish with
a wanderer who
cannot stay home
though the hearth
is warm and welcoming
and the bed becomes
a battleground of
constantly conflicting
beliefs, consternation.

She no longer accepts
his lame excuses
the pitiful clichés,
the way his own pain
exacerbates her own,
how the beat-up boy
in him cannot find
a man’s place to stand
with faithfulness flying
in the storm surge of
a wounded world.

Someday, maybe a boy,
maybe a girl. She goes
through the harvesting
process at forty, cuts
him loose to fend for
himself, come what may.
She waits, savoring
child’s pose, happy baby,
she clings now to the yoke
created in quiet studios,
meditation chimes freezing time.