To Lori, Now in College
Donna Pucciani, Ph.D.
You should see him now, you uncle Peter,
Mowing the lawn, mulching leaves.
He parks the mower in the garage, plods
Indoors grunting his old-man noises
In a voice that once whispered bedtime tales
Muffled by the dark of your pillowed hair,
Belinda Macintosh on the Farm in Iowa,
Belinda Macintosh Goes to the Circus,
His eyes glassy with fatigue as you fell asleep
clutching your favorite marble or Tutu the Bear.
It is autumn here. The orange maples burn
holes in a pink sky at sunset, while you
Party with roommates by the pool in Tuscon,
Punch numbers on your cell phone, study
Under sun-blazed palm trees, dab sunscreen
On muscled young legs, you who left
amid boxes, suitcases, and books:
tonight, behind your eyes, will you watch
Belinda ride her horse on a moonlit meadow
Or milk cows in a barn heavy with hay
As an old farmer closes the pasture gate?
