Home in Wartime

Oxbows round the lower pasture wall;
new-mown hay and honeysuckle sweeten
the bitter modern air;
sunlight waterfalls over the woods;
life is a dream.

The phalanx of pin-headed turkeys parading the meadow
ignores the war, but the birch leaves shake with fear
and the mountain burns with reprisals.
Give me your hand. Trust it like love
down the hall at night.

If I die first, gather the lost years
with the late September apples. At sunset ghost me
beside you on the steps to watch
the tangerine-lavender clouds turn gray.
Go on, go on.

If you die first—the sheets as cold as fish,
the dogs whimpering their loneliness each morning,
the old walls cracking the silence—
I’ll lay your ashes on top of the hill
where the sky begins.

                          F.D. Reeve      +2013









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