To my Grandfather who Lived to be 94
I think of my grandfather and how for all those years He and his farm of a hundred and sixty acres Were counterparts. Spring after greening spring The fields were plowed, the seeds were sown, the cows Let out to pasture. All summer and into fall The crops were tended and harvested, fruits And garden produce stored in bins or shelved In the pungent cellar where daylight languished, pale As potato sprouts. I think of the barnyard where He rendered lard and boiled tart cider down For apple butter. I see the ghosts of geese Drift up from the branch at dusk, think of him Believable as when life spilled at the brim.