You muddled through your thesis on landscape and soul and body

But you never published a book,

You never even wanted to, or maybe you did

And yet

By the time I pass the rusted outside porch fridge

To move through the lamp-lit kitchen

And enter your living room in the country,

Full with an old hymnal and plenty of afghans,

I am ready to write on your walls

Tender, forthcoming, bucolic

Words on plaster in support

Of this best-seller

Set on an old tobacco farm

A memoir

Sun wrinkled, honest, incandesant with just enough

Cast-iron and lace

To stand the test of time.

 

Even when the oaks have fallen

And the snapdragon no longer goes to seed

when your back suffers to straighten, after years submitted not

to typewriter

but to field and to prayer

this will all matter.

Because you have written

A life

Shorn

From what you’ve been given,

Not what you’d imagined.

This one does it all

And not out of defiance or ambition

But accepting

discipline and grace and circumstance

you are crafting

A story

That will keep us reading

Until the end.

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