beckoning me back

hands finger blades of wheat
as it sways away and back to
a thumbing that allows for a
brief pause of thought
to slowly pace back from the steady stream of
clothes to mend
grain to mill
babies to feed

a crying beckons me back
my sauntering gains momentum as
thistles grab at my apron, calling
just a moments longer to take

back at the house
with hens dreaming through midday heat
I find Mrs. Henson’s son yet again
hanging around
untroubled by my lack of interest
as he rambles on, as he usually does
all I can think of is where his sweet sister Carolyn is
and why she can’t be
the one
doing the bidding