Buttercups decorate Ted Porter's lower field. Daisies too, and Black-eyed Susans. Where two years ago we found a fawn sleeping, this year only battened Timothy. Hawks pass. Milk snakes.
When I met you, you reminded me of a young bull, or the young bull's mother. There was a way you walked that moved me, even before you spoke. That I might one day die while you held my hand - assuring me it would be okay - did not occur to me. I remember driving to New York. And later still Montreal.
I remember also sitting with you by Walden Pond, eating cheese and day-old bread, talking about Greece. Cows settle near the forgotten mower, happily nursing their cud. Clouds pass, and threats of rain. Who is going anywhere is lost. Who builds a barn works in the past.
Another bottle of whiskey, another long night. One refuses dreams and all that is external in a last ditch effort to see the Lord. Cells divide and the result is chaos. Will I see the late Fall apples? So many questions, so close to home.