To fall asleep she makes lists:
who still mow their own yard,
what books are due at the library.
This is how she becomes
tired enough.
I call to say
the fields have texture
like corduroy.
In one direction
run furrows of the plough,
in another, red top hay
mottled as linen.
Beside the field there’s
a new fence of woven wire
in perfect squares,
the creek’s shadowless water
layered with leaves.
She goes to the window
over the street where cars
are parked up close to the curb
to look out at the corner,
the few stars overhead.
In the pasture three chestnut
horses wear masks of netting
so the grass at their hooves looks
fractured as graph paper.
At dusk they must be half blind.
I want her to know this,
but it is later than I thought.
Soon she’ll come to visit
so we can drive to where people
sit out Sunday afternoon
on their porches,
not even talking.
I tell myself at least you’re trying.
At least she would have liked this.
