by Matthew Francis

Did she remember as she sat at her tapestry
stitching her marginalia of flowers,
or when she squeezed in between her sheets
and a scent of meadowsweet
haunted the darkness,

or when she rode over her husband’s acres
just after the oak-leaves had opened,
bright with the greeny-yellow
of hearts of lettuce,

a time when she dangled in the wind,
when her insides were offered
to a nuzzling bee,

when she was part of it all,
when she was many?