Margaret Koger
The Yard Light

I am not spying exactly.
The old farmhouse, night,
faded paint, light like
an encore of firefly
commas in leaves, their
staccato promise of profit.

I slouch across grass
steal into the orchard
dusk surrounding
as if I’m in your arms.
How once I gazed
boldly into our window
to see the blue chair
we bought together
to see you sitting there.

I look down at my boots.
Our lives have moved on.
The big red apple cookie jar
(a wedding present) is
empty, the children gone.

Whatever it was we had, the
quiver of arrows, the bow …
hyper things; a stream of
aquamarine phrases
a necklace, the lift of a chin
lost. I touch the windowpane
cold glass, shards hungry
to shatter. The yard light
wrinkles my skin.
I live in another world.