The young farmer’s widow considers the harvest

You say nothing and
what could you, what

words can tongue the
abruptly absent body?

You will long for shock
once it dissipates, but

now this fearful
frenzy, all that must

be done when nothing
can be done:

the obit, the funeral,
receiving the food, the cards.

Helplessness weights
the air like humidity

in storm-bruised clouds. The
crops he worked feel

mean to you: early fall
corn tall in the fields,

kernels plump, ears
tasseled and silked.

When you can think you think,
What of our harvest now?

You note the chickens
molting hard and fast,

their lovely feathers falling
and falling, shrouding

the dark earth.

 

Remembering my cousin Jill Briggs Roegge as she grieves the loss of her husband, Matt — a farmer, a father, a good man.  

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Tags: death, farmer, grief, harvest, loss, seasons, widow