My parents are tilling the earth: raising

beds of turnips, onion and beet, 

planting thyme, oregano, rhubarb. 

Little pots of tomato and pepper punctuate

the deck. Six-foot deer fence protects 

carrots. They talk of chickens, new dogs, breeding

even, litters of squirming fur under their care. 

They are keeping busy. Growing. 

The gentle rhythms of survival. Wake

and watch the black-headed juncos

flit on the powerline. Notice the sun

slant across the lawn at this time

each morning. Perhaps this is enough. 

It isn’t. Their grandchildren lie as ashes in the land.