traces her finger along the grout, thinking
she could change her name
to something like Yori Shinobu.  Maybe then
she'd find ancient grace, seventh century
trust, the blessing in every fifth wind
 
to write poetry about one time
when,  yes,  he admitted to wandering.
But no,  he never strayed.  The Season
of Tall Grass would speak of sheep
in high plain meadows,  three octaves
 
of bells with their bonging comfort
soothing her,  telling her in which fields
they foraged,  at which stream they
balked.  Her heart would beat
 
in cadence,  thunderclouds from the sea
would wait,  crossing divides and skimming
ridges to find her near the unlatched gate,
before clapping out a rain burst.  In this way
 
she might become wise and giving.  Maybe
loosen her shawl and turn
back to her hearth.