Repairing the Meadow
you dedicated more than
the last decade of a life
to restoring the acre of meadow
on the western slope
stretching beyond
your aging cottage
with so much
callused love
how can it be
a single day
could wash
the tapestry away
the light through the
leaves of serviceberry
amplified pure green
into a color you had
heretofore not understood
until the day you set
the native tree
into the hole you
dug in the clay
and between
deep rooted clumps
and tangles of tough
meadow grasses
and the alfalfa and red clover
you troweled in
drifts of rusty sweet
joe-pye weed
purple vernonia
upright liatris
golden helianthus
watched them kiss the sky
and without exclusion
or recrimination
transform sunlight
into your passion for
all living beings
each june you stood
and extended a warm hand
to touch the balm
of monarda opening
its delicate fecundity of
mauve flowers
and always
there was
so much yellow
crownbeard
wingstem
silphium and
solidago
shouting in the
waning hours
of september
boasts meant to keep
your heart
burning through
winter with
the last of
summer's fires
and
of course
everywhere
wild legions of
thistle milkweed
oats and poppies
anchored by
white oaks to the north
and the ancient
mulberry set long ago
by no one
anyone now remembers
neither the plans
by the county board to
rezone the rural countryside
for power lines
to feed the world's
endless thirst for nonsense
from data servers
nor the careless words
of the guy you were
tragically dating
when he laughed
how you should mow
the grass and
trim the bushes
to make a great spot
for him to practice golf
these were but
browned leaves
about to drop and
could not stop you
just props
for the cataclysm
not at the bottom
of the destruction
that most matters
the gray ghost
of your mother
dead at eighty-nine
now squinting
frowning sighing
quipping
how the field
looks so weedy
arriving late
on saturday
and speaking through
the painted lips
of your older sister
with whom you don't
share much
asking behind
a mask of already
drawn conclusions
if maintaining the place
was too difficult
for you to do alone
and what you want
is for them both
as one for once
to see your life
for what it is
love you
for who
you are
so you might
come home again
at the end
of this day and
each day after
and repair the furrow
now plowed in the meadow
and tend the unhealed
wound cut by a dark past
so near to your wild heart