pioneertown.

The Story Love Tells While
You Put Away the Groceries

Somewhere someone sweeps
out a greenhouse, one of those
old style glass hothouses you
don’t see much anymore, full
with winter light, terra cotta pots
stacked on wooden tables.

A small stove warms the air,
the dirt floor, maybe some
faint bluegrass station, or
classic rock station, plays
from a low shelf. There’s
just enough to do, not
enough to have to rush.

The Story Love Tells While
You Sweep the Kitchen Floor

Fireflies drift into the sweet
smell of milkweed, their lights
small bright conversations that
wander from Rose of Sharon to
grass to shadowy daylily fans,
then back again, no place special
to be, just to see what’s around.

The laundry done, the dishes
drying in the sink, light from
the back room shines quiet
on the grass, on the daylilies
closed up for the night. She
sits on the back steps. There
used to be so many more
fireflies when she was a child.