Separation

Round the circle of her garden she walks, and stops again, taking in, as one absent from her own senses yet unwilling to forgo their gifts,

the half-dimmed light of a low, prepubescent moon, its influence on lingering clouds, some few stars brave enough to compete with

mercury vapor or halogen or tungsten, and taking in also the pungent garlic border, its enclosure of bean vines, celery, snap peas:

celebratory things, even in this half-light, this dew of forgotten hours. Her feet, though well shod, warn her of night, by noting

slow seep of dew round toes and heels. Her hand, brushing wet night-blooming jasmine, shrinks from chill. These, and trees

she has encouraged -- apple, plum, pear, cherry, maple, ash -- seem to her reproachful, watching, as it were, her heart begin to slip

to a life they cannot share. Beyond, in a stillness of curtained rooms, her children, innocent of this need, dream of loss.