He used to walk the property at dusk;
now I do, too—not because he did,
but because I understand why. He
walked around the barnyard, observing,
checking things that mattered: his horses
in their stalls, a piece of siding missing
from the barn, the size of the hay supply,
water levels in the horses’ tanks, old tractor
in its bay, the horse trailer, the trucks.
I walk the front yard, seeing what is there:
the rose transplanted yesterday, another
planted days before, progress of the weeds,
soil softened by chipmunks, entrance
of the first iris buds, a bumblebee at rest,
the youngest cat stalking blades of grass
in the last light, unwilling to let the day go.