In between rains
I prune the roses,
prop the chaise lounge
against the house,
stow the plastic chairs
in the shed.

It is the phrase for the week,
“When there is a lull in the rain,”
one of us says,
“do you want to walk?”
“When the rain stops
I need to do the wash.”

It is proving to be a wet winter,
the lake rises daily,
the new grasses
we walked upon last week,
and swaying in the water,
singing, I think, in their death.

I feel free to pick
the early mustard,
a purple bloom I cannot name,
sour grass and dandelion,
since they too are on their way
to an early death.

Every day our walk shortens.
We tromp through more
and more mud,
more and more water,
push back the reeds
to make our way past
for probably the last day,
but we have been
saying this for days.

Out back the creek has returned
and every where mushrooms
are growing.