This
is your homestead now,
your
land, sown as it is
with
seed or salt.
Yours
to husband and to harvest,
to
till and break and
cause
to bloom.
On
the barn, the old letters
have
faded and are painted over
with
your name now.
That
time you said when or if
or
then has left. There is only
this
sunlit afternoon.
Ready?
Just
remember that the Earth
always
turns toward the morning,
And
a gentle rain is
surely
on its way.
For Emica on her fortieth birthday
March 5, 2026
Did you, my friend, revel in your freedom?
Shook loose the halter of matrimony and
bounded into the morning light.
Was it worth the solitude to leave?
A brief shower but no further blooms,
Only the dry crackle of steps in dead leaves.
Were Fall and Winter unexpected?
Or hoped for?
In the pub, each man drinks from his own cup.
The murmur of voices is not a conversation.
To listen to the song is not the same as singing.
Hands that grip the table edge do not touch warm flesh.
Perhaps I am wrong.
Perhaps the walk through the dark streets alone
Was no hardship. The empty bed, the dish in the sink,
No compromise.
We come and go alone, I suppose.
The sea waves crash ashore
unheard, the mountain broods unseen.
February 17, 2026
for Matt, of course.
