After the Death of Ex-Wife’s Second Husband

by Russell Rowland

The Harvest Moon of Fall and infirmity
succeeds June’s honeymoon. Dead leaves
blow away like stipulations. Days shorten
at both ends, and the year’s grip loosens.

October offers a compromise flesh accepts:
pathetic body, anxious to distinguish itself
in bed, asking validation of another’s flesh.
Leaves overrun the boneyard nonetheless.

I kick my way through what I’ll have to rake,
before the obliterating snowfall whites away
everything done and undone. I can’t change
the outcome, but at least can clear my lawn.

Acorns drop more noisily than one expects,
from their size. Small hope of propagation
for each. Death is only defeated when we
gang up on it—marrying, having children.

Still, the oak tree stays a player: bargaining
summer’s plenty for winter’s want. Its arms
are empty as it waits for spring. But inside,
it knows the seasons, and adds another ring.