Did she remember, as she sat at her tapestry

stitching its marginalia of flowers,

or when she squeezed in between her sheets

and a scent of meadowsweet

haunted the darkness,

​

or when she rode over her husband's acres

just after the oak leaves had opened,

bright with the greeny-yellow

of hearts of lettuce,

​

a time when she dangled in the wind,

when her insides were offered

to a nuzzling bee,

​

when she was part of it all,

when she was many?