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.