A Week From Last Sunday

Monday I ease warm eggs from beneath sleepy hens,
gather a bouquet of chive blossom
and fold for you an omelet of longing and goat cheese.

Tuesday I wash your sheets in the pounding rain
with soap squeezed from the hearts of thistles,
and dry them with the heat of my own body.

Wednesday I brew beer from sun-gold grain,
slip a message of hope into each bottle
and cross my fingers one will find you.

Thursday I spin a fine yarn of lamb’s fleece,
dye it sky blue with shells from a robin’s nest,
and knit you a sweater of impossible design.

Friday I polish the walnut posts of your bed
with oil distilled from the quiet voice of my own desire,
scented with hops and the fragrance of your skin.

Saturday, honey-voiced, I sing your child into dreams
of bees and Spanish Lavender and california poppies,
massing roadside to celebrate his small journey.

Sunday I hang my apron from an apple branch and pray,
when at last you remember me and return,
may you find me still willing to take your hand.


by Kelleynne H. Riley