We've lain together 50 years,
she to her side, I to mine.
I know her smells, her wrinkles, moles.
She shows no quarter as we battle
though her blade has little bite, and mine
avoids her armor's weakest chinks.
We live by accord, the rules long set.
We'll die governed by our bond,
yet her mind's a mystifying place
and she its wily temptress drawn
to charms and secrets locked in a box
with a key right there on her dresser.
Walking Among Wolves
All summer the droning lawn mowers
kept the white wolves at bay.
Soon autumn's telltale leaves
will register their footfalls, stealthy at first
then increasingly bold till their slick tongues
lick the air at my doors and windows,
sleek bodies waiting dare I go out.
In my attic, persistent angels sing paeans
to spring eternal just around the corner—
the same tiresome tune since I turned 60.
My stout walking stick leans by the door.
Rather it, braving white wolves' jaws
than succumb to angels' mawkish song.
Darrell Petska's poetry has appeared in After the Pause, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Chiron Review, Star 82 Review, Tule Review, Picaroon Poetry and elsewhere (see conservancies.wordpress.com). Darrell has tallied a third of a century as university editor, 40 years as a father (six years as a grandfather), and almost a half century as a husband. He lives outside Madison, Wisconsin.