Moon in Virgo

Every month I have a sense of relief when the moon moves into Virgo. Finally I can get something done. I breeze through the day, checking items off my mental list, the list that swims in my mind at four a.m. I'm always happier doing than thinking about what needs to be done.

Today I saw a picture of the house my husband is living in, with a woman he's fallen in love with. I can hardly call her a girlfriend, she's nearly seventy-years-old. To me it looks like he's finally found the mother he always wanted.   One of the things I liked best when I met him was he called his Mother every Sunday. He was a good, loyal son. He respected women. When I met her less than a year after we were married she poked him in the stomach and said "Looks like you've put on some weight." No hugs. Me she called a "string of spit."

Today I look at a picture of the house my husband is living in, a small stone house on a golf-course, 

short-shorn green a few little shrubs. Completely exposed.

I walk outside into our yard, I mean my yard, where cicadas' electric hum fills the wide open air. My beloved silver maple is still stuffed with leaves. They wave to me, that say admire me, which I do.

My yard contains my beloved white-muzzled dog, a dog my husband never liked, a dog who adores him, and the cat who came to us starving eight years ago. Both of them relaxed, but alert to the sounds and smells around them.  

Clustered under the maple's shade, rows of blue and black containers still burst with life, my husband's vegetable garden. Will it die this winter, along with our marriage? Or will I become a gardener now, in my autumn years?