packing the chinese
rugs and amethyst
measuring the
Chippendale chest
she’s circled which
crates are for
silver which for
moving china this
year she won’t
see the grape
vine turn green
from her bed the
chinese dogwood’s
star flowers glow
across the yard
from lawnchairs a
June breeze hits
40 years she’s
watched her husband
put in rose leaves
and iris    a border
of geraniums that
never looked the
same when she put
them in herself
alone    she’s pack
ing the years she
painted while he
played the violin
told her what to
pack for paris    his
voice as much a part
of the rooms as the
way light slivers
thru the spruce
that was just planted
the first night in
the house, the moon
wild on them the
whole night