Wife Poem by Leo Yankevich

It's true that I'd indulged:
the sweetness of her lip
and thigh that love divulged—
my hand upon her hip.

It's true our three sons feared
my words and not my whip.
A poet, so I reared
them all: to hear the rip

of verbs, the weight of nouns,
loved by the dew and sun.
Faded now, her gowns
are lost and weigh a ton.

My three sons lift me from
the hospice sofa bed.
They tell me that she's glum,
her hand upon my head.

Upon the sill a dove
or crow affirm our love.