Carbon Dated

It’s a story as old as the hills:

Transplanted by love
from the suburbs
to the back hills,

she barely remembers
nine to five
or the splendor

of a dinner party
where the cutlets were veal
not venison.

Slender as the poker
she uses to stoke the coal stove,
a sapling has become an oak.

Frayed but regal
in her expertly patched dress,
everything matches now–

the burgundy sofa, the blue chair,
dresses, slacks and shirts
all muted by the great equalizers,

time and anthracite,
that nefarious pair that leave nothing
untouched in these hills.

No need for clocks,
the expected whistle sounds;
day shift is done at the mine.

She touches a hand to her hair,
smiles as her heart trips a glad song–
he will be home soon.