My body tucked into
the corner of my chair,
my mind is off and gone,
walking beside him somewhere
north of Boston.

We cross the field side by side,
survey the damaged wall,
speak of forest and orchard,
wonder if the re-building

is chore or challenge.

As we detour past the fir trees,
I am careful in my speech,
not mentioning their crowding.
He nods, as if to acknowledge
my restraint, and we move on.

The gray skies threaten snow,
and he speaks in solemn tones
of how once he lost his way,
there in the deep, dark wood.
Then he laughs, shrugs,
takes my arm, says, “Come,
it’s time that we were gone.”

On another day, a sunnier one,
we work the fields together,
each in his own thoughts, silent.
I swing my scythe, hear it whisper,
strain to understand its message.
In its sweep he hears new songs,
new tales yet to be told.,
He lays down lines in his head
as his labor lays down the grasses.

SHARON ANDERSON has been published in many international and local anthologies, has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, and has four publications of her own poetry . She serves on the advisory boards of the Nassau County Poet Laureate Society, and Bards Initiative, and is a PPA co-host at Oceanside Library