The chokeberry folds into the dead grasses.
The late frost leaping
among a stark cribbage of geraniums—
a blade of ice fell here
from the culvert in the night.
My wife is in Gallup
until the second Friday in Lent…
Her mother’s burial. And
an arthritic spaniel
who must be put down.
All night the deer were in the trees
mewing for salt. Finally,
With a red tablecloth
I ran out after them.
The screen door
startled instead the peacocks on the shed.
The violet eyes on their fans woke me
screaming. I’ll be glad
of my wife’s return.
And of an exchange of seasons.
"The Coroner's Confession" posted with permission of Norman Dubie. Copyright © 2004 Norman Dubie.