Come, walk with me, friend, out to the mailbox
the way we used to walk together when I lived
across the road. Older sister-friend who graduated
from high school, year I was born, and who still lives
there, widowed and unable to walk much of anywhere,
anymore, but who can still go with me on the phone.
I walk and listen while you tell me about your latest
doctor's visit, and that you saw the red fox again, skimming
across your backyard, and that your first husband is
back in your life, a blessing who brings you groceries,
and rubs your aching back. And I tell you what I see—
the deer tracks cut deep in the stone-sand
shoveled to patch the potholes in the gravel drive.
To the south, how the brown field is combed in ridges
empty of corn, and how my July hens are laying now,
their first small eggs, the yolks, so yellow and round
they could be suns, and you say, "Yes, honey, that's how
they're supposed to be." Then you tell me the way
other things used to be, should be still, and I want to listen
as long as you have stories, breath in your lungs, dear one.