Being

The woman walks up the mountain

and then down. She wades into the sea

and out. Walks to the well,

pulls up a bucket of water

and goes back into the house.

She hangs wet clothes.

Takes clothes back to fold them.

Every evening she crochets

from six until dark.

Birds, flowers, stars. Her rabbit lives

in an empty donkey pen. The sea is out

there as far as the stars. Always quiet.

No one there. She may not believe

in anything. Not know

what she is doing.

Every morning

she waters the geranium plant.

And the leaves smell like lemons.

Linda Gregg