The following is a poem I just finished for my ex-partner:


Even now, seven months after you left,
I sometimes hope to find your silver Rogue
Parked near the log house. It can’t happen,
Since you sent back the key to the farmer’s gate,
Though I offered to let you keep it so you could visit
To pick wineberries and enjoy the solitude
While I am traveling for two months this summer.
I guess that ends your relationship
to the hollow, the place where you lived for six years.

Here we cut from the forest,
A large garden/orchard that you spent hundreds
Of hours in, and from your hands came potatoes and onions,
Broccoli and peas, brussels sprouts and string beans,
And dozens of other things.
The soil wasn’t very good, the best stuff scraped off
When we had the space cleared with a backhoe,
But you toiled so hard tilling it and tossing away
A multitude of stones. We put dozens of bags
of composted manure in, and it helped,
a little, but not enough.

I wish I could give you all those hours back,
But that can’t happen, and all I can hope for
Is that your backyard garden has better soil
And will leave you with memories
Of great harvests unclouded by any need to leave.