Linda B. Gamble

She thought those seeds
she dropped would bloom.
Now on her knees, she snatches
weeds from their beds,
stuffs them in the bin, hides
her tears, feeds her anger,
savors her silence.

Across the yard his pickax arcs,
tangles with unseen roots.
He curses, struggles, swings
through unsettled air, recoil shocks
vibrating through tense muscles
as ax hits rocks - one after another-
missing pieces, scattered at his feet.

The lawn between, once grassy
now littered with stones. They stumble,
begin to collect them, pile one upon another-
small altars to self, embellished, stacked
higher still, threatening to topple.

You should have told me, he cries.
You should have known.