The Gertrude Munzenmaier Prize

After

On her walk across the meadow
where ponies once grazed,
she stops, picks a weed
bouquet, pops a pebble
in her mouth, palates the dirt,
its hint of warmth, taste of wet
wool and empty nest.
These are her limits of gladness—
gazing beyond the cinquefoil
to wildflowers once picked
to brighten a table
for two about to be three.