For Lennie and June.
Leonard rests as the shadows rise.
His dusty shoes lie in the mud room.
His eyes glisten blue but their edge is dulled.
He sees well enough to make out the end of the row.
He has shut the sawmill down.
Planks of oak and ash are stacked with spacers.
They dry and age in the round barn.
Their grain is straight enough.
He believes he may see one more harvest.
His tomato plants are the tallest in the township.
The potatoes are blossoming, the sweetcorn promises,
with acorn and butternut squash for everyone.
His metal is showing some rust and dents.
He always drove Fords and Lincolns,
kept his Sunday ride clean and fine.
He loves June best with wind in her hair.
His limbs and liver failing him, but there is still an imp in his grin.
The sawbones tells his tale, "Maybe six months..."
Leonard trims trees, tinkers in the woodshop,
maybe he'll go fishing on Puckaway.
She never paused to count the mornings in the barn.
Cattle, hogs, children, chickens, ducks and Lennie,
so much to care for and a turkey to baste.
Great-grandchildren coming up like a row of radishes.
June doesn't count the days or hours or minutes.
Seconds are too precious to calculate.
Her weeks with him evaporate but she does not complain.
He will never be far from her.
He will whisper her name when the breeze rustles the corn.
When an oriole perches at the kitchen window
she will see him in the glass, just over her shoulder.
His scent is in the turned earth, mown hay and diesel fuel.
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