transplanted by love
from the suburbs
to the back hills

she barely remembers
nine to five
or the splendor

of a dinner party
where the cutlets were veal
not venison

slender as the poker
she uses to stoke the coal stove
a sapling has become an oak

frayed but regal
in her neatly patched dress
everything matches now

the burgundy sofa, the blue chair
dresses, slacks and shirts
all muted by the great equalizers

time and anthracite
that nefarious pair that leave nothing
untouched in these hills

no need for clocks
the expected whistle sounds
day shift is done at the mine


she touches a hand to her hair
smiles as her heart trips a glad song
he will be home soon.

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