Pattern

She was there before Caesar's day
And she is still there,
The woman at the doorway, watching.
The man walks off, self-conscious in his new clothes;
He turns around once and tries to grin.
She is not quite sure about his saving the nation,
Or the empire, or freedom, or the world.
Sowing seeds, pitching hay — as yes, he was good at that
The wind blows, and prying fingers of rain
Meddle with the listless autumn leaves.
The woman turns to face the familiar room
That has died during the last five minutes.
Life narrows into a thin cold shaft of loneliess,
Even while she fondles the little boy,
Quiet and awed at her side.
The late rose on the kitchen table drops its petals one by one.