Wendy J. Herbert

Before the Bonfire

I didn’t sweep it for a week, though leaves
like a light rain dropped every day
until the side yard below the sparrow’s nest
wore silk, a sari shimmering on the hips
of a girl asleep on winter’s doorstep.
Still I didn’t sweep. Menopause
made me moody, ruthless. And I wanted to
watch her silk turn brittle before it burned.