He said he wanted to lie down in his backyard,
cover himself up with his soil
and die.
This seemed to roll off everyone's back
but mine.
He began slipping as soon as she had passed.
Occupied at first by clearance,
tending to organization
and purging.
Until the house was nearly rid of her,
until maybe he felt nearly rid of her,
or the need for her.
The sun set on the half-acre of soil
where those lives buzzed for so long.
Emptiness ensued,
purposeless, he surrendered.
His soul stayed on that land, in that house
when the rest of him was being tended
on an hourly basis.
Until he finally caught up with himself
and with her.
He's a shadow in all my photographs,
the sweetness in the carrots I harvested
a month after he'd passed.
He is nuts and bolts and old tools
and electrical wiring hanging from ceilings.
He is a radio wave, a channel,
a signal I constantly hear in the wind.
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