Little Gourds In Autumn Poem by Donal Mahoney

He was upstairs doing something
on the computer when she got home
in the rain so she sent him an email
from her recliner rather than calling
from the bottom of the stairs.
Why disturb him. Nothing urgent.

She was weary after a long day
with the ladies who meet every week
and arrange flowers in the Japanese style,
a style where less is more, a style
befitting their age, the ladies agree.
But no flowers today, she wrote.
Instead they arranged gourds,
little ones, in an autumnal way.

She said Victoria hadn’t come.
It’s hard for her with the walker
but her daughter buys her flowers
to make arrangements at home.
Her living room looks like a wake.

We’re better off than Victoria,
better off than a lot of people,
she reminded her husband.
We have to be thankful.
But now it was time for a nap.
She would check the mailbox again
on rising and let him know if the bills
and magazines had finally come.
The postman, she said, is likely
sitting in his van avoiding the rain.