for the worst

plowed fields open their eyes,

while an exhausted mother is wailing,

the calf is quietly feeding, preparing

for the worst.

not too far away, intruding,

sits an old house, built on promises

and up the creaky crumbling staircase

lies two soulmates, breathing together,

habitually holding hands;

for the worst.

the Master wakes first, with His

grizzled beard and triangular glasses,

picking spotless eggs from their mothers,

and still warm, He breaks them open,

filling the kitchen with the aroma of

cheese, garlic and fresh young;

for the worst.

the scent drifts upwards, to the Maiden's chamber,

with Her straw hair and juicy pear eyes,

Her black boots wait outside, so patiently,

where the mule is whipped, and then starts

ravaging the land

for the worst.

unblinking plains hold their breath

while rows of corn stand at attention,

ears grown solely to listen, but

for the worst.

wiry hands working swiftly, He repairs all that

was ever damaged during the Great Flood: Over

and under, and through again, the needle snakes;

Rehanging the mustard curtains, He presses His nose

'gainst the window, and sees a great rainbow in the sky,

He reaches out to it-

for the worst.

sweat lodges in the pockets of Her nose,

while it slowly rolls and drops off Her lovely chin,

while in the haze, a snake slithers close, and leans in

to bite— but nothing can sink into Her leatherhide skin,

That leatherhide skin,

through which no man's words can pierce;

for the worst.

the barn door is slowly closing

and the mustard curtains have been drawn;

the stove's been longed turned off,

at least till morning,

when the mother hurts again;

the Maiden reaches over, to the

Man of Her dreams, and whispers,

"you've been good today"

and then the lamp goes out.

and then their lives go by.

for the worst.