Maggie Mae is buried – there
just beyond my kitchen window
under the summer canopy
of ancient apple trees
 
Appropriate don’t you think?
Her round head, round eyes
framed in apples,
her greeting a dizzying
 round go round.
 
            Today the wind picked up
            and a dozen apples fell
            one split in two revealing
            A chambered heart--necessary dark seeds.
 
            At dusk deer will tiptoe hushed
            into the palpable shadows
            and I will hear her bark bark
            at their trespass, will see her run
           
                        run again, run wily and whole
                        first into the tall grasses
                        before the sweet turning back
                        toward the light of home.