there is a point
where solitude
becomes religion
a small house
in a wide open field
beneath a brutal
white sky
two young sons sleeping
through the
hottest part of the day
and a husband who
may or may not
love you
who may or may not
be with another woman
as you stand in the back yard
feeling the curve of the earth
beneath your feet
and you are too small
to break the silence
of the day
you are afraid of
the sound of
your heart
something this fragile
cannot last forever
