Roger Pfingston

While her husband naps,
dreaming again the mile-high fir
toppling out of the clouds,
she's in the garden deadheading
phlox and feverfew, distressed
by fresh mounds of dirt.

The afternoon has darkened so,
even the birds have gone silent.
If she turned on the radio or TV
she'd know a storm the size
of a Texas night is bearing down
and all the silence in the world
is not enough to keep it from happening.

As the wind walks her back to the house
it's steel traps she's thinking...
the random tunneling of moles.

Winter 2002, Indiana

Where is the icy tit, that dripping
grayness that I suckle through the season?
How can I be my brooding, lyric self
when February sends regrets
instead of zero air contracting
like a steel band around the house?

How can I walk from room to room
reciting lines when the sun ignites
the closed blinds like a reprimand?
And yet, those same blinds open
are equally distracting, revealing
a green confusion of crocus leaves
piercing the mole-tilled ground.

How can I take to my favorite chair
with hot tea or chocolate and feel
pleasantly cloistered while the taunting buzz
of a sluggish fly sends me not in search
of pen and paper but a rolled up copy of Time?

Where is she who calls herself Muse
that I might tinker with some newness
free of sunny, high-temp days
a rational man would welcome?
Where is my fever, my heart's cabin!