Old men talking about their knees at the dump. Chrisoula asks if I'm getting a fishing license, I say no, she says gently lucky fish. Grackles picking through dewy grass together. How angry my father could get!
Childhood is a museum.
We replant my mother's azalea by the remaining hemlocks, unearthing broken glass as we go. Goldfinches soar by. One hand on a stack of bibles, the other in my pants.
Apparently the blue glass bottles I've been collecting are officially worth something, though "they will never be worth in the marketplace what they have always been worth in my heart" I say, liking the phrase so much I tuck it away to tuck into a poem later.
Writing cross-legged in the over-stuffed rocker, my toes a little numb. Groundhog scootches out of the raspberries and nibbles the dewy grass, freezing when he notices me noticing him, then going back to feed but with an eye on me. I'm less like a snake and more like a weed.
Something is missing, is it sex? Nobody knows this but Bob Dylan named one of his tours after me, the "Why Do You Look At Me So Lonely" tour. Reconfiguring the compost according to an evolving understanding of how gardening and horses and the land works.
Blowing cannabis smoke at the stars, the stars burning a little brighter. Oh holy maple tree.
Naturally we no longer speak of guns here. Chrisoula asks me to help her carry old kid bikes, baling twine and feed bags to L.'s house where they will be gloriously repurposed.
Eating just-picked strawberries and snap peas at the kitchen counter, becoming something familiar, winged, beyond argument or place, grace-filled, gone.