we were farmers once, you and I

and young. a time of plowing

of breaking ground, a time

for the placing of seeds, for watering

and waiting, a time for the taking root

of love. come– walk with me again

in this garden—there is still fruit

on this tree, can you not smell it?

sit, eat. soon our time for eating

will be through. soon will come a time

for the cutting of wood, a time

for the warming of bones before fires

© Old Bones New Snow/J.A. Fink  2013