In a minute, I'll make a sandwich.
Until then, it's enough
to sit here by the window
nothing tugging at my skirts.
Soon there will be work to do,
children at my breast, demanding,
a husband little more than a child,
hungry. He imagines that my days
are not work, and my nights are his.
Now the light is changing
towards the cooler half of afternoon,
and the house still-just for a moment.
Such a deep green on the leaves.
I must prepare dinner,
for he and they will soon be home,
filling the rooms and halls with clamor.
Look at the light on the sill.
It used to be adoration.
In a minute.