Another dry day, the sun unclouded in the 7am sky.
the dog's leash, heavy and hot in my hand.
I thought the volcano would fix the weather,
my husband says, and I realize

                                    how wrong I've been,
how poorly I use the space we saved for dreams.
His a meadow, a green and a daisied place

where seeds of knowledge blow in, then
promptly blossom. He could become
a volcanologist yet, my husband thinks.

I've let sorrow fill the sky between my ribs,
become a spillway for all our floods:
daughter's bloody bitten nails, cancers,

accounts due. Who is the better steward of?
their acreage? Not the one squinting
and sweating, struggling
to pull the family
dog from the bushes.