I’ve called off the folks who bale their hay—
the grasses—growing in my fields—
that now sway quietly in the wind
I called the hunter, who from the blind
he’d built in my stand of pines
picked off deer in his sights,
to say he’d not be hunting here
anymore. There, look, a doe,
her fawn chewing the raspberries—
plants and all—berries my wife
won prizes with—
I haven’t gathered since she’s gone
and now can’t see well enough
to pick the fruit with these clouds
in my eyes. The sky
has begun to cloud. I had the pool
I used to tend filled in. My wife—
no longer around to swim.
Today the hunter shared his last
venison—he brought it in marinade—
I asked would he also bring
a six pack, no, a case, oh a six.
How much longer will it take
before I empty my fridge,
before I’m done with all this?