JANE HUTTO

A Stir in Boggy Lane

Was that your voice in the winds,
Or just another mimic?
Were you addressing me last night,
My cultivated cynic?

A reclamation of our lives,
As started in the summer,
Can hold no candle to my grief
When promises outnumber

The many times you meant to stay,
Then left for other ventures--
Associations far from home . . .
Too numerous to mention.

I think the winds of Boggy Lane
Are whispering more weakly
Because I know beyond a doubt
It is Marie you are seeking.