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Pat Jones
Sisterly Correspondence
Home with fever your nephew is restless. That aside, I paint away the day stop only to bake dog biscuits, fresh salmon for dinner.
Unlike the others, Shorty appreciates the change from peanut butter to bouillon and garlic. Given where he's been, he's easy to please.
Tomorrow I'll plant fairy wand, needlegrass and fescue. Come fall I will watch them dance to the weather.
I love the wind, how she moves things around.
Back Forty Mistress
An autumn bride but no newlywed, she soothes his brow with hand-hemmed linen, cabbage leaves she's iced and saved for under his hat on summer days. And she sings sings him through the dusty rows, unlaces his boots and draws his bath, sends him off fresh for Ceres to admire until crops come in and with hands grown cold she stokes a fire, blows warm kisses across the furrows, frost-gray stubble.
Predictors
She gives his history objectively enough to impress the clinically bent with gleaned ability to impart facts scales and scores that, even considering standard deviation, sink below acceptable.
They lower their heads and speak referral, never touch what she knew early that numbers used to label men can never measure fear, project the day she'll be too slow to break his fall, too old to tie his shoes.
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