mrs. barrett

in her bee bonnet
mrs. barrett
leaned between her rose bushes
and trimmed
out the weeds.
a web of black net covered
her thin face.
her leather gloves
once white
were dirt brown.
she sweated beneath the light
cone shaped
hat, but didn't mind.
she thought about the ice tea
in a pitcher
which waited in the old
ice box, its rounded shoulders
sweating
in the kitchen.
her knees sunk into cool
mud, still soft from last
nights rain.
she had no need to look
when a car approached,
rolling slowly
up her gravel driveway,
the cinders crunching beneath
the weight of the car.
she knew who it was
by the motors sound.
or the light tap of a horn.
two beeps were Martha,
three were joe.
but she knew
whether postal, or milk
or a child returning
with news about their lives,
all of which lay
beyond the long limbed
fence, broken in places
she'd eventually get to.