So Fingertips Kiss
Five kids, eight years.
And then one day my wife
shouts to me on the tractor
roaring in the field:
“I’ve had enough.”
And like a ballerina,
she rises on one foot, sole
of the other foot firm
against her knee
and with arms overhead
so fingertips kiss,
she smiles,
pirouettes,
and then like a helicopter
lifts into the air,
whirls over the garage
and keeps rising.
I can do nothing now
but curse
and be proud.
As if at the ballet,
I applaud from the tractor
and blink at the inferno
as she hits the sun.