Now, Turn

Face looking this way
face looking that, who's
hiding behind the curtain?

Solemnity sets in
and hangs for as long
as the portrait will last,
is she looking at
the pitchfork, trepidation,
or down the road
at some returning
prodigal, afraid of what
he might do?

The cameo on her neck
adorns her, but he is
plain and grave, a farm
where crops grow
with little sympathy.