With your face

 

Evening soft Autumn light;

the year’s foliage 

becoming humus,

new soil;

smell of decomposition: 

mossy,

next year's fertility;

you standing,

foot on shovel, king of ridges;

colour of ripeness 

heading towards rot;

unknown then

your lungs discolouring,

hardening

as Winter hardens.

Today, standing

in  dank November

preparing the soil

for next year's growth

with your face

but older now

than you ever were,

thinner;

watching the  years pass

in  tides of  growth:

the relentless march

of seasons pulling

me after you;

seeing the soil

as home.