Grounding

The first thing I do after they leave
Is pat and rearrange everything
Back into the shape of my liking.

Just so there’s the illusion of control
For eight hours at least,
Until school bus brakes screech
And backpacks catapult
Landing in speed bump positions.

For eight whole hours,
I take out my ears
And shutter my face.

Not even the dog gets in.

I am off wandering
Puttering among posies and weeds
Growing riot and rank over
The landscape of my silence.

And when eight hours is up,
I’ve usually cleared
Just enough ground to stand on
With flowers in my hands.