Irene

She laughs and hums a tune, says it’s stupid to lie, it’s just what others do, we skirt around the garden, she gives another sigh, children are in late bloom, issues a muffled ooh, her failing sight, roses come out before June, the same pragmatic Chardin, follows the afternoon light, mice scurry in the furrows, knows she faces ruin, don’t ask me why, she's one for owning truth, neither will she bow, says she’ll go out high, pretend she’s above Idaho, make her voice boom, rage across the night, men can state they knew, she wanted to fly.