White Hydrangea

by Peggy Liuzzi

in a clear glass vase.
A single white petal, small
as a teardrop, falls
to the tabletop.

My husband does the dishes,
back toward me,
a blank wall. I say his name
and wait. He doesn’t turn.

Eyes focused on the work
before him, hands immersed
in suds, ears attuned
to some other narrative,

he is complete – a man
on a desert island, serene,
his every minute polished
pebble smooth.

Sky glows peach and gold
as wind rises to rattle reeds.
Shadows lengthen. Heavy-headed
hydrangeas bob against the window.

Outside frogs thrum soulfully, throats
swollen, flexible as rubber bands,
calling one to the other
across the world that is their pond.

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