originally published in "The Massachusetts Review"
Sadness is Fuel, a Nutrient
Sadness is fuel, a nutrient—
The narrow garden behind the lawn,
behind the yews pruned into marshmallows,
where a son shows his father
how to grow squash—
Simple, mound up a cake of soil,
a little grave, drop the seeds down the holes,
the ones just punched with your finger—
Like vines overtaking the lost August grass,
we attempt to go beyond what we have been—
Here come the beers—
And welcome the cows,
tired now in their blood-red cathedrals,
nodding softly about this morning, this afternoon,
what evening could possibly bring.
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