She lived alone in the house her husband left.

The farm was home—poultry, crops, the woods beyond,

and farther yet the stars, blinking as when she was a girl

moving from child to wife.  Most nights she wept herself

to sleep, waking at dawn, the old chant her only comfort:

John, Oh John, come take my hand

Her day began with steaming coffee, sweets baked

the night before, just as it was when he was still alive.

The rooster crowed, sunlight streamed in, and life went on.

There was no moon the night the stranger came.

A lone wolf howled beyond the glen, the dogs barked

once and then were still.  A rooster crowed, how odd

she thought, like mother used to say, someone is dying

when they crow at midnight.  She heard a knock and held

her breath, took down the rifle from the kitchen nook.

A muffled voice reminded her of birds and creatures

she often found hurt on the ground, then brought to life.

Who goes, she called, and opened the back door.

He was tall and lean, his blood a pool of darkness

on the steps.  I’m hurt, he whispered and collapsed.

She dropped the gun, sank to her knees--John, Oh John--

How do you know my name, he asked,

and closed his eyes.  A soldier who’ll not last

the night, she thought, and pressed the wound.

She never questioned from which side he came,

nor why his name was John, he was in need of help and she

in need of giving.  Weeks passed, he regained strength and

asked to stay.  There is much work here for a man, he said,

and I’ve no home to turn to.  Her smile was the answer he

already knew--John, Oh John come take my hand.

He took away old memories, his arms around her waist,

kisses she had forgotten.  I’ll fix the roof, he promised,

build a new shed, and chop the wood for winter’s coming.

If there are promises to make, she said, just say you’ll never

leave me.  I cannot promise what I do not hold in my two hands,

was the answer she did not want to understand.

She gave her heart and he, his brawn and sweat.

Until one day he simply said, tomorrow morning

I move on.  And knowing him so well by now,

she knew he’d take no quarrel.  They lay one final

time as wife and husband, till he slept.

The kitchen was in darkness, a single moonbeam lit

the gun.  He should have died the day he came,

she cried, for now my loss is doubled.

John, Oh John, what’s to be done?

She watched the shadows on the wall and waited

for an answer. When moonlight shifted to his face,

his breathing steady as the crickets’ hum, she shot

him once, then pointed to her heart.  The rooster

crowing was the final sound just before midnight.

They found her early in the spring, when earth

awakened muddy under the winter thaw.  Alone

on the large bed, dried blood turned a dark stain,

the loaded gun near where she lay.  Poor soul, the town

folk said, she never did recover after the husband’s death.

And so they buried her by John, then forgot all about her.