by Mary Beth Hines
The days stretched as they did when I was a child.
The leaves, lush on the maples in Father’s yard,
swayed and called, and I said yes to everything
as I’d always promised myself I would.
Since he was only just gone, I waited; let the days
rise and fall into each other, collapse.
When he came and talked to me in dream,
in a language we both understood, I listened.
Bees burred deep in the violet wells of his hostas.
Coyotes yipped. Rabbits thumped and rustled
under shrubs. Only the old stone fox was silent,
haircap moss sprawling over its snout and ears.
Mary Beth Hines’s debut poetry collection, Winter at a Summer House, was published in November 2021. Her poems, short fiction, and non-fiction, appear, or will soon appear in Crab Orchard Review, Tar River Poetry, The MacGuffin, SWWIM, Valparaiso, and elsewhere. Her short fiction was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Following a career in public service, she writes from her home in Massachusetts. Connect with her at www.marybethhines.com.
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