THE FARMER’S WIDOW AT HIS GRAVE

Rest now and let your knuckles grow smooth.

Hammer no clouds against the sky.

On this hillside, conjure no more grain.

Let fences and sheds fall down.

Let combines rust.

Let all things be as they will be.

Let our youthful design complete itself

as the landscapes subscribes,

by sun, vermin and the wind’s fury.

No longer will I come into this field

with food and drink and a lover’s kiss.

No longer will we bloody our hands

at the cry of a newborn calf.

No longer will we sleep with the sunset

or dress together before first light.

Forget these things and the sayings of men.

They explain nothing

of the formations of your face,

tilled by seasons of infidelities,

nothing of your stooped shape, your hands

busted and scabbed by frozen mornings,

nothing of the hues of the afternoons

that stretched our shadows

beyond all reckoning.

 

 

 

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