picking rock

I will be dead by eighty-two
I guarantee it
my life insurance expires at
eighty-two so I must
be dead

the world crushes the flower
once bloomed
and too soon picks the blossom
in prospect and hope, in hope of pastels bushed
brushed against a pale canvas
of Monte rain

those who will remain
will understand all my follies
the dog knows who to sleep with
not so all sainted, or
creatures of habit

even as I love being cradled
in the later wisdom of breathing, my glasses
are not quite adjusted for left
or for right, and eighty-three I fear comes
all to quick

should I expire just long of eighty-two
with the wild lily blooming
yet one more year, I do believe it will smell as lovely
as prior, but unlike prior
I will not see it as before

ones loved have what they need
I have gathered the meadow, mustard and all
(though the lily I left it wild)
but this apron is full and heavy and worn and the
laughter sees its shadow in a
summers blaze

Pick rock! Pick rock! until the sky
is red and round and so, so low
follow the rows all dead and unseeded
pile high and higher the stones
unheeded
watch out for the foot and the shoe that is bare
the cry of late spring (after the thaw)

eighty-two is well enough
I figure the chores will be done, at least for that year
the common will vanish
as the lily comes full
long after the thaw
and the rock has been picked

bkmackenzie
copyrighted (2017)

for the Poetry Pantry - Poets United