She’s Probably Still There,
living close to the land
and the borderline, riding
her tractor, and knowing
the seasons as well as she
knows the cry of the barn
swallow and the tracks of coyotes.
She’s probably still there,
fussing around her kitchen,
canning and baking pies
for the hospital fund,
her hair in ringlets,
wearing the apron that I know really
well, the one with a pattern of blue jays
And perhaps she is so busy that I’m not
only out of sight and out of mind,
but gone completely, like the first frost
that leaves when the sun rises, and sneaks
away with the coming of the day.
Neal Zirn has been published in numerous journals in the United States and Canada, including Blueline, Mudfish, Nerve Cowboy, The Dalhousie Review, and Main Street Rag. He has placed seven times in the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Contest. His chapbook, Manhattan Cream, was published by MuscleHead Press.