I hear her stir the small jar
of paint she’s mixed and know
she’s found the quiet needed to work.
Snow hasn’t yet fallen this winter.
I pick at this.
That poem about the green tomato
was supposed to be the new start
I’d promised myself, to step away from the dark.
That poem about the green tomato
was supposed to change things,
loose my loving tongue on its voluptuous
surface—simple music—
Tom Driscoll Writing 