She had risen early,

softly shut her bedroom door,

slipped away in the silence.

Left me alone with the orchard,

the fields where our children had played.

How green the grass!

I packed a few things in my old Ford pickup,

covered 30 years of marriage

with a crumpled plastic tarp.

Thought of the Beverly Hillbillies,

our evenings clustered

with the children years ago.

Thankful she had left me

this moment alone.

Glanced over at our neighbors’

solid brick bungalow.

An old German couple

who stayed with this soil for a lifetime.

Every afternoon they set out chairs,

sat in the shade,

watched our children play.

One day they folded their chairs,

leaned them against the house.

Walked over,

said thank you for allowing us

to watch your children grow.

We never saw them again.

Sat silent in the cab.

Tallied up a lifetime of living.

Tomatoes staked in strong straight rows.

Peach and apple trees pruned,

pregnant with fruit.

Oak b... [Read More]

My Father, Myself

Your request that night,

…calm…careful

barely audible

through the patter

of gentle rain,

brought death to my door.

Half-formed images

stirred in dark shadows.

I couldn’t answer with words,

merely nodded my acceptance.

You returned to the evening’s concerns

of split bamboo and hackle,

the frantic mayfly hatch

our chances next morning.

Now I carry you on my back

wrapped in a World War II

military pack

I gave you years ago.

The canvas,

thin from years

of rubbing against your body,

now rubs me

in those same places.

The whine of mosquitoes,

the winds lonely dirge,

the towering pine spires,

guardians of your favorite pool.

Here at this white pine,

older than your great-great-grandfather,

comforting in its permanence,

here at these roots I’ll place you.

No longer will you crane earthbound,

to w... [Read More]

   This is a true story. I met this man in northern Wisconsin. The ground there was terrible for plowing, but it’s all he had. He had lost.

The Harvest

Father, Uncle, Brother, Son,

Father, Uncle, Brother, Son.

The old baler clanks out the chorus.

He wheels her around,

lines her up with the fence post

near the neighbor’s abandoned barn.

There was an ancient Ojibwa encampment

where the Ontonagon enters the lake.

His son plowed up arrowheads, stone axes,

the land more suited to warriors than wheat.

They chanted legends around smoldering smudges,

leapt off herring boats bobbing at anchor,

jumped from high wheeled tractors,

brushed the chaff from their shirts,

said goodbye to the dog.

Father, Uncle, Brother, Son,

the gleaner sings its song

of spinning shafts and sprockets.

Winters he welds broken chain,

straightens cams and rods.

How long can the old girl last?

Bales drop from the chute,

sag to the stubble

like body bags from Vietnam.

Father, Uncle, Brother, Son.

Last Dance, 1949

That soft afternoon in ’49,

kicking a stone down County Trunk A

just off Old 13, near Shanagolden.

Fields full with corn and hay.

Model A roadster purrs by,

sunshine yellow, black polka dots

painted on it’s sides.

Five young men

play “Apples, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie.”

Clarinet stands balanced, facing the sun,

tuba sits sideways sipping the wind,

accordion lays back, leg over door,

trumpet blows backwards into the dust,

driver sings, “Who’s not ready holler I!”

holds her steady at thirty-five.

Down the road at the junction with C,

Polish wedding at the Farmer’s Club,

polished oak floor, propped up shutters.

Mother, daughter, twirl and giggle,

Grandfather, granddaughter

join hands and circle.

Determined young women

twirl cotton dresses up to their thighs,

clusters of men

pretend not to notice.

The Polka Boys hit their stride,

tuba setting the beat,

steins of Leinenkugel at their feet.

Everyone who dances with the bride

pins a dollar to her dress... [Read More]